We’ve been workin’ so hard. We’ve been workin’ so hard. Come on baby, come on baby—let’s dance. Come on, come on, come on. — Steve Miller

I like to dance with other people. Actually, no. That’s a lie. I don’t mind if other people are also dancing, as long as we aren’t making eye contact. O.M.G. (Except with Dom. So many things are easy with Dom.)

When I was an actor, centuries ago, danced on stages. Born to hand jive, baby.

I’ve danced on Martha’s Vineyard beaches, De Kunsta Drum filling the air with rhythm. The sun was setting over the water, dragonflies twirling in the orange sky. The full moon rose slowly over the dunes, making the dance feel magical.

I’ve danced alone, lost in my own experience. That’s my favorite way to dance.

Which is why Jurian Hughes is my nemesis.

Jurian teaches yoga and dance workshops -- in Iceland, Mexico, Switzerland, Italy, Kenya. Her home base is Kripalu, a Massachusetts retreat center, an hour’s drive from my house.

When you dance with Jurian, you are all in.

I adore her; we have a lot in common. Except this: Jurian makes a living asking people to dance with strangers. In her workshops, you make weird shapes out of your body, with strangers. Jurian encourages eye contact ... all the time.

Because I like dancing, and I like Jurian, I go to her class when I’m at Kripalu. Even though I struggle not to run out of the room screaming.

In case you’re wondering ... no, I’m not British. I say hello to people in elevators. (My London colleagues freaked out when I told them about an odd elevator encounter. “Did you make eye contact?!?!”)

I am, however, a giant nerd.

I make my living building digital systems. My colleagues complain about “too many meetings” if they must interact with other humans more than three times a week.

We don’t make weird shapes with our bodies. We probably forget we have bodies.

Warning for the also-neurodivergent among you: here comes a plot twist.

I went to Jurian’s entire weekend workshop.

I didn’t think I’d last the morning. But she encouraged me to "dance with the trees” if I wanted to (a euphemism for facing out the window). (Also, I like trees.)

Sometimes I moved with the group but avoided eye contact. Sometimes I took a break when my body wasn’t feeling it.

I loved the weekend overall.

I know. right?! I warned you, plot twist.

I loved being surrounded by people moving freely -- feeling with them. I felt seen, ironically, when someone danced with me, eyes down. My dance, they conveyed, was valid too. They accepted me as one of the wiggling weirdos, and when I was more comfortable, we smiled at each other.

On the second day, a young woman come over to me. She asked me to partner with her for one of Jurian's dastardly “exercises.” She’d been to this workshop before, she knew what was coming.

When the potential-partner said "I'd be honored and delighted to do this with you" -- I felt something I still don’t have words for it. Calm, grounded, connected. An easeful fullness. Chosen and trusted. Appreciated, respected, and full of happy anticipation.

Until I heard the instructions: Two people take turns watching each other dance.

Yes, my potentially goosebump-laden friend ... one partner sits on the sidelines and watches the other dance (in the group). Then they switch places, without saying a word.

I’d rather have someone watch me vomit—from multiple orifices—than watch me dance. Profound discomfort screamed "run away!!".

But I had said yes. My partner seemed to understand this would be a hurdle and had lowered the bar.

She began dancing and I sat on the floor to watch. Immediately, I was swamped by an overpowering, cringe-inducing shame. I felt like a giant pervert. The gigantest pervert who ever lived. An old, cliched pervert. (She was at least twenty years younger than me.)

W.T.F? I’ve never felt ashamed to be queer. I knew I was bisexual before I knew the word "bisexual". Queer has always seemed normal (and straight seemed queer).

Yet, here I was, so overwhelmed, I nearly bolted.

Until I noticed—I wasn’t watching her with prurient interest. I was watching her with interest. I have never looked at a woman like she’s a piece of ass. Even when I’ve been well-acquainted with her lovely ass.

Watching my dance partner, I saw her movements, her shape, the color of her hair, the flow of her clothes, the shifting texture of her skin. Her body was speaking, and I was listening. Sharing this time and attention felt like camaraderie, like care.

So where the fuck did all that shame come from?

Just another closet full of unacknowledged junk.

My experience as a woman, the subject of redolent male gaze, had convinced me that I was somehow responsible for it. Feeling safe in my own skin, my own experience, just meant I didn't see it coming.

I didn't feel sexually attracted to her, but that would have been okay. The tidal wave of shame was inverted trauma ... never wanting to be the cause of pain I knew so well.

As my inner storm cleared, watching her dance began to feel sacred.

Not like church -- like gratitude. I was grateful to be present, doing what we were doing.

When it was my turn to dance, I imagined her experiencing similar feelings. For the first time, I felt being seen as safely held. I relaxed into saying whatever my body wanted to say with movement. Just moving, not performing. It felt… stilted, uncertain but okay.

Later, my dance partner told me she was a trauma survivor, doing a lot of healing work. She’d sensed that I would understand. I did. More importantly, her choice to do something brave for herself ... healed me.

Without either of us speaking ten words.

I prefer a life of the mind. I’m not sorry about that. But my body keeps the score. Sometimes, the only path to insight is to dance.

And maybe do one of Jurian’s horrifyingly weird exercises once in a while.