I’m baaaaaack. Not cautiously. Not someday. Like it or not. Back back.
On the top of the Commercial Street parkade at night, wind in my chest, city humming below me, dancing like no one owns me, because no one does.
I threw on Liquid Stranger’s “Who” and let my body answer the question for itself.
Improvised. No choreography. No audience. Just instinct, sweat, and freedom.
Dancing at night has always been mine, the hour when Bellingham quiets down and my nervous system finally gets the mic. That’s where I remember who I am.
Back in my body, dancing at night, exactly where I belong.
I gave this up four years ago.
I set it down. I buried it. I convinced myself it was gone for good. And now I’m taking it back, fiercely. No apology. No permission.
No fucking care in the world what anyone thinks.
This didn’t come out of nowhere. I made room for this. Recovery did that. Healing did that. My manifesto did that. I burned the old patterns to the ground and what came running back were the things that kept me alive in the first place.
Dancing is proof of life. Proof my body trusts me again. Proof that joy isn’t reckless, it’s earned. I’m not returning to who I was.
I’m arriving as who I am now.
Free as a fucking bird.
And nothing is ever putting me back in a cage again.