I love when a memory whispers into my mind, and I feel it start to move. I take the words, the image, the emotion and let them dictate the beat—if it’s a soft memory I choose a slow, floating rhythm, if it’s a stormy thought I let the steps grow sharper, more urgent. The stage becomes a mirror, reflecting whatever language is still in my heart. It’s like the story itself is a partner, and I follow its pulse, turning words into movement and movement back into a story.

The last one was a rainy night at home, listening to my grandmother’s lullaby in the attic. I felt the rain tap against the windows, the lullaby hum in my head, and I turned that into a slow, gentle waltz. The rhythm felt like a heartbeat—soft, steady, almost hesitant—like I was dancing in a quiet conversation with the past, holding onto warmth while the storm outside pressed against the windows.

I kept it mostly for myself, a quiet nod to her voice that still lingers in my chest. But when a close friend asked if I’d ever share it, I let the music spill out in a small gathering, and the rain‑inspired waltz felt like a gentle hand reaching across the room, reminding us that some memories deserve to be felt, not just kept hidden.