Unchoreographed

An off-beat Thursday.

I can’t recall the day of the week or even the month, but the memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday.

I was living in Chiang Mai, Thailand. It was a routine week when a dear friend invited me and my flatmate to join her for an ecstatic dance class after work.

“Okay,” I said, hesitant. “I have no idea what that is?”

She explained: freeform movement, healing through dance. Meditative, expressive, joyful. “It’s kinda like a silent disco,” she said. “You’ll love it.”

“Oh god, that feels wildly outside my comfort zone,” I replied.

“Well then, it’s right up your alley, Kate,” she smirked, already swinging onto her motorbike.

Damn it. True. I love/hate friends who know me too well.

“So Thursday, then,” she called back casually.

My flatmate and I exchanged a look. “Yeah, sure. Thursday,” we echoed.

Shit.

I was nervous. I dressed like I was headed to dinner—jeans, white top—and realized the mistake as soon as I walked in. Yoga studio. Cubbies in the foyer stuffed with mats and personal belongings. Everyone else in workout gear, barefoot, stretching, waiting.

Okay, I thought. Strong start.

I followed the crowd into the largest studio and tucked myself into a corner. A facilitator moved through the room, handing out noise-canceling headphones. He placed a pair in my hands.

“Put these on,” he said. “Everyone hears the same music, but it’s your own journey. The rhythm builds, and so does the energy in the room. Just roll with it. Don’t worry about anyone else. Just dance.”

I wish you could’ve seen my face. I wish you could see it now, even as I write this.

“Yep. Great. Excellent. Okay,” I muttered, slipping the headphones on with shaky hands.

The lights cut off. Across the room, headphones flickered blue, and the music began.

It took me almost twenty minutes to settle. Not for lack of rhythm—I dance around the house, belt in the car, move in clubs with friends. But there, I’m either alone or held by people who know me. This felt different. Vulnerability first, spirituality second.

I started slowly—stepping, stomping, swaying—gripping my own self-consciousness while marveling at everyone else's freedom. No one was judging me but me. And weren’t we all in it together? Equal participants. Equally exposed.

As the beat built, something shifted. We jumped together, laughed together, threw our arms in the air. It thrilled me. I let go. I gave in to the music, to the moment.

When the final beat landed, we pulled off our headphones and sank to the floor. Still in the dark, the room glowed soft and blue. We were asked to partner with the person beside us for a cooldown.

To my left was a tall, dark-haired man from India, whom I’d overheard introducing himself earlier. We nodded—floor neighbors turned assigned partners—and followed the next instruction: sit back to back, and match one another’s breath.

Perfect. The vulnerability journey continues, I thought, smirking.

I’d sweat through my jeans. My hair was matted to my neck. Sliding across the floor toward him, I tucked a wet strand behind my ear.

“Sorry, I’m melting,” I grimaced.

He pinched the front of his shirt—it was soaked—and offered a crooked smile. “Same.”

We eased into place—back to back, shoulder to shoulder—close enough in height to share the weight comfortably. With mock dramatics, I leaned my head against his and let out an exaggerated sigh. He laughed—quiet and breathy—and nudged me with an elbow.

His energy radiated into mine: grounded, steady, alive. Not a flicker of romance. Not a spark. Not a Hollywood scene with soft lighting and swelling music. This was something else. Something bare. A sudden, startling recognition of shared humanity. A man whose name I didn’t know—and yet, here we were. Seen. Held. Connected.

I listened to the even rise and fall of his breath. Then mine. Slowly, we matched our rhythm. There was a mutual trust in the exchange: stay here, hold steady, don’t pull away.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and let myself imagine the world behind him—a dynamic life unfolding with stories I’d never hear, people I’d never know, places I’d never see. And somehow, just sitting here beside him, aware of it all, felt like enough.

Eventually, the lights came on. People rose. My friends wandered over, chatting, making dinner plans.

Dinner. Brilliant, I thought, reveling in my own sarcasm. That is what I dressed for.

Before leaving, I felt a tug to say goodbye. I spotted him across the hallway, huddled with friends.

“May I hug you goodbye?” I asked.

He smiled and opened his arms. I stepped into them—and felt the weight of the moment. One embrace. One chance to impart every wish a stranger might need for an entire lifetime.

I wished him health. Love. Community. Nourishment. Stability. Safety. I wished him joy. I wished him wholeness.

As we stepped apart, my eyes brimmed. He nodded, like he knew what he’d just received—because he’d given it, too.

“Bye,” I whispered.

And with that, we turned once more—back to back—and returned to our respective friends and respective lives.

Author’s note: I haven’t taken an ecstatic dance class since. And I’m not sure another could compare.