Dance Through the Fall
The Art of Losing Balance
I just got back from a Rockabilly festival, and as one guy put it perfectly - “I rested my soul there.”
After five long years, first with Covid, then some personal medical setbacks, I finally danced like I used to. No holding back. Just pure, sweaty, joyful movement. It was liberating. It was electric. I’m beyond happy. My heart feels full, my body sore in the best way, and I just had to share a piece of my dance story with you.
Because sometimes, coming back to what you love feels like coming home.
It was about 13 years ago, and I was in a dark place. Heart freshly broken, apartment hunting alone for the first time, job gone, it felt like life had hit the reset button without warning. Everything I knew was unraveling, fast.
One night, while attending a fashion show, I met a burlesque dancer - the kind of woman who lights up a room just by being herself. She invited me to one of her shows - The Royal Burlesque Review!
The venue? An old Milanese theater straight out of a dream - velvet curtains and this enormous chandelier hanging like a frozen firework in the middle of it all. The dress code was strict: vintage glam from the roaring ‘20s to the dazzling ‘50s. I felt like I’d time-traveled.
The burlesque show was mesmerizing, but what came after? That’s what truly cracked open something in me. A DJ started spinning swing records, and suddenly the dance floor came alive. Couples twirled and glided like characters from an old black-and-white film. The rhythm, the joy, it was electric. I just stood there, breathless. I want this, I thought.
That week, I signed up for my first dance class - rockabilly jive.
And because I’m a total nerd when I fall in love with something, I dove headfirst into the history. Dance in the 1920s? It began in speakeasies during Prohibition - small, tight spaces gave birth to Balboa. Then came the big ballrooms, swing orchestras, and the golden age of Lindy Hop. When rhythm and blues took over, Boogie Woogie hit the scene. And by the ‘50s? Well, post-war youth danced in the streets, in jeans, shoes scuffed from asphalt instead of parquet floors. Rockabilly even introduced one of the solo dances, the stroll, which later evolved into Northern Soul, the ultimate expression of freedom in motion.
Anyway, back to my story. That first dance class turned into a second, then a third. I found my tribe, an amazing group of people who became like family. We chased music and dance festivals across Europe: from Lindy Hop and Charleston to Balboa, Boogie, and Northern Soul.
And like everything that brings me joy, I got totally obsessed.
It reminded me of that wild story from 1518—the so-called "Dancing Plague," where people in Strasbourg literally danced for days without stopping. I get it now. Joy that fierce has no off switch.
Then, as life would have it, I fell in love with a dancer. We had this rare, electric synchronicity, like our bodies had known each other long before we met. Dancing with him felt effortless, like we were made to move together. Every step, every turn, it just clicked. It was magic. But love, like rhythm, sometimes shifts. We eventually parted ways. And I was terrified—truly—that I’d never dance like that again. That I’d lost not just a partner, but the spark that made dancing feel so alive.
That’s when I made a decision that changed everything.
I started teaching dance. Because I realized - if I couldn’t always have him, I could still have the dance. I could create spaces where connection, rhythm, and joy lived on. I’d never have to wait for someone to dance with again, I'd always have someone to share the floor with.
And honestly? That choice saved me all over again.
Our little group joined Boogiemilano, a full-blown dance school with over 250 students a year. I even got certified with the Italian Olympic Alliance and became a licensed instructor. Imagine that - me, the "chubby girl" who once thought she couldn’t dance because she wasn’t fit. Joke’s on that old version of me.
One of the highlights was creating a women-only course where we explored solo vintage line dances, learning to move sensually, proudly; hips, legs, confidence, all in sync. It wasn’t just movement, it was liberation.
Dance gave me more than just joy, it gave me strength, community, purpose. It reshaped me, inside and out. And it paid enough to let me live alone, right in the heart of Milan. Not bad for a second job that felt nothing like work.
Then… COVID hit. Everything stopped. I moved back to Croatia, left my beloved dance crew behind (though they’re still teaching - check them out!). The music quieted, the dance shoes rested, and the sea became my new rhythm. But that’s another story.
Thankfully, once a year, just a stone’s throw from my home in Medulin, one of Europe’s best Rockabilly festivals springs to life - Tear It Up.
Five magical days of live music, dancing under the stars, and pure nostalgia by the sea. We stay in a bungalow, surrounded by vintage cars, people dressed like 1950s movie stars. It’s like stepping into another world - timeless, vibrant, and utterly joyful.
I just got back and my heart's bursting with serotonin, my shoes are falling apart, and I haven’t stopped smiling. I feel alive.
So here’s my invitation to you:
Put on a song - anything that makes you feel something. Start moving. Even if it’s just a sway, a step, a bounce. Dance is medicine. It heals. It connects. It wakes up your soul.
And trust me, after teaching over 200 people a year for seven years - everybody can dance. Yes, even you with the “two left feet.” Rhythm can be learned. Muscle memory just needs practice. What matters isn’t how you look, it’s how it feels.
So go on.
Press play.
And dance like your life depends on it.
Because sometimes? It really does.
May sunsets are something else, spectacular in their own quiet way. It’s the clouds that make them special, catching the fading light and scattering it into soft reflections of gold, pink, and violet.
The sun rarely sinks clearly into the sea this time of year. Instead, it slips behind the clouds, and somehow, that feels even more magical, like a secret show just for those who take the time to look up.
This is the May Palette, a sky painted in soft fire and hush.
And the soundtrack? It’s drawn from our favorite records played this year at the Tear It Up festival. Music to match the colors in the sky.
