This past week on the podcast I co-host, we interviewed a guest who calls himself, “The World’s First Party Coach.”
We learned about how he, after working many jobs that didn’t seem to be just right, invented the “Party Coach” profession due to his realization that after attending over 100 raves, dance parties, and social gatherings, this was his true passion.
During the interview, a part of me perked up asking, “What would it be like to really let go, attend a rave, dress up, show skin, just be up for anything?” I imagined myself dancing around, in some sparkly spandex costume, with my face painted, twirling, and giving in to the music and being in the moment. Upon sitting with this imagery, an inner delegation emerges and says, “F*ck no!” and rolls out a scroll of fears like Santa’s naughty list.
That seemingly benign phrase, “Dance as if no one is watching,” pops into my head. It’s inspirational, right? To let everything go. To surrender. It should be freeing and relaxing. So why the fudge does it sound so terrifying? Why, instead of letting go, does my whole body tense up at the suggestion?
Being a trauma therapist and a trauma podcast co-host, I, of course, revisit my childhood memories to figure this out. The answer hits me and it’s an overwhelming wave of grief. “Ahh, yes. That’s why I haven’t looked at this particular grieving place. That’s why I freeze up. Because it’s almost too painful to look at.”
My insight to why that piece of advice doesn’t work for me is because as a child, nobody was watching me. Not my mom, not my dad, not a caring grandparent, not a loving relative, not a fun babysitter. Around the age of seven, I would get home from school with my younger brother, aged five, plop down my backpack, and sigh into the void of our empty house. Sometimes, I would roam the neighborhood searching for something to do. Sometimes, I would make cinnamon toast so inept that I would almost burn the kitchen down.
I was born in 1968, prime latchkey kid era. I had a dirty shoelace around my neck with our key on it. What was happening in the 1970s is that mom went to work, which, on par, was great for women everywhere. My mom was a real estate agent, a profession where there were few boundaries and the client came first.
But it wasn’t just that my mom wasn’t physically around. She also didn’t seem to care who I was, where I was, maybe even why I was. I existed. That I had a mind and a story worth exploring was beyond her. Don’t even get me started on American Dads—that’s a whole other blog. She didn’t ask me how my day went. She didn’t grab me and pull me into her after a long day of showing houses in her Belk’s business attire. She didn’t say, “I’m so glad to see you, honey!” She didn’t stroke my hair lovingly. When I was devastated that I didn’t make the cheerleading team in second grade (it’s the South, where cheerleading starts early), no one asked me if I felt like dying (which I did).
So, when I hear the phrase, “Dance as if no one is watching,” a rage bubbles up. I want to personally blame whoever put out that nonsensical trauma-uninformed platitude (and maybe punch them in their stary-eyed, blissed-out face). I imagine that only someone who was watched and delighted in could make up that phrase. That person gets that freedom to dance when others are watching or alone if they choose to because they’ve had the gift of being witnessed, appreciated, and celebrated.
I have often said to therapists that it feels like I was done with my parents by the time I was five. I was already self-sufficient and swallowing disappointment so I would not feel the sting of emotional neglect.
...to read the full post on Elephant Journal, click here.
AUTHOR: ANNE SHERRY
IMAGE: LAURA FUHRMAN/UNSPLASH
EDITOR: RASHA AL JABI
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Anne Sherry and I cohost a podcast about Childhood Emotional Neglect called Latchkey Urchins & Friends. You can take a listen here. The dance episode is Ep25.
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