"I can’t believe I’m doing this.” That was my mantra the first time I attended a salsa dancing class. For most people, stepping into a dance studio might come with a mix of excitement and curiosity. For me, it came with one overwhelming feeling: fear. And not just any garden-variety kind of fear, but the type that spurs humiliating flashbacks of being the awkward kid at middle school dances, standing frozen while everyone else two-stepped in unison. The fear wasn’t just in my feet—it was in my soul.

To be fair, I didn’t think fear would ever emerge from something as seemingly harmless as dancing. After all, how serious is a good beat and some movement? Serious enough, apparently, for me to expertly avoid it for the better part of my adult life.

But the truth is, the fear wasn’t just about moving my body; it was about letting myself be seen—in all my goofy, unpolished glory. And if that’s not also a metaphor for relationships, I don’t know what is.

The Root of the Fear (Spoiler: It Wasn’t Just About Dancing)

Looking back, I think my fear of dancing was born in Lagos. I was seven years old when an aunt dragged me into the center of a crowded family party and announced, “Malik is going to show us his moves!” Spoiler alert: I failed spectacularly. Any rhythmic sensibility I might’ve inherited from my Afrobeat-loving parents deserted me in that moment. The laughter wasn’t cruel—it was the warm, communal laughter of a family deeply amused by a kid trying too hard—but my seven-year-old brain translated it into rejection. My default internal monologue since then? “Avoid this humiliation at all costs.”

So I did. I avoided Nigerian weddings, clubs during college, and the romantic, movie-perfect moment when someone extends their hand and asks you to dance. If you’re imagining me awkwardly mumbling excuses to escape potential dance floors: yes, exactly. At times, my behavior felt like I was dodging literal landmines. You might call it an overreaction. I called it emotional self-preservation.

The thing is, as this fear festered, it eventually infiltrated other spaces of my life. Dancing wasn’t just dancing anymore; it became a stand-in for all the other ways I refused to put myself out there. Taking risks. Being vulnerable. Willing to—dare I say it—look like an absolute fool.

The Unexpected Invitation

My salsa moment had humble origins. A coworker invited me to a dance class, casually mentioning that it was good exercise and tons of fun. I was this close to blurting out my usual excuses—a phantom injury or a busy Saturday schedule—when a small voice inside me said, “You know that fear you hate? Maybe it’s time to stop letting it win.”

I swore I heard that voice only because I’d just finished a self-help book the week before. You know the type: “Lean Into Your Fears and Watch Yourself Bloom.” I’d read the thing mostly out of spite, but apparently, some of its wisdom had stuck.

Showtime: Facing the Dance Floor

Walking into that salsa class felt like a scene from a heist film. My heart pounded. I scoped the studio like a jewel thief casing the joint. Shiny floors? Check. Giant mirrors reflecting every awkward limb movement? Unfortunately, check. About a dozen people in bright sneakers chatting confidently about “8-counts” and “spins”? Oh, we’re definitely in trouble now.

The instructor was a tall guy named Javier with endless energy and a habit of shouting, “Loosen up—it’s salsa, not surgery!” I promptly ignored this advice. My first few attempts at the basic step resembled a bad game of Twister. Everything about my movements was clunky and artificial, like a robot programmed with faulty software.

But then something miraculous happened. No, I didn’t magically transform into a contestant on Dancing with the Stars. What happened was simpler. In the middle of tripping over my own feet, I accidentally caught the eye of my dance partner, a kind woman who smiled at me like we were in on the same joke. And I laughed. Not at her. Not out of embarrassment. But because—believe it or not—this clumsy, silly version of myself was… kind of okay.

Lessons From the Dance Floor (That Aren’t About Dance)

Turns out, salsa dancing taught me more than just how to count to eight. It became a metaphor for everything I was scared of. And the lessons I learned are still serving me today, not just on dance floors but in relationships, work, and life in general. Here’s what I took away:

  1. Perfection Is Overrated.
    Javier’s favorite phrase was “It’s about the feeling, not the technique.” (Although trust me, my technique was bad.) His words reminded me that connection, whether on the dance floor or in love, doesn’t come from doing everything flawlessly. It comes from showing up, putting in effort, and not being afraid to stumble.

  2. You’re Not the Main Character in Everyone Else’s Story.
    My biggest fear was looking foolish. But do you know what I realized? Nobody else in that class cared. Everyone was laser-focused on their own footwork. It dawned on me that I’d spent years worrying about hypothetical judgment that didn’t actually exist. PSA: People are kinder than we give them credit for.

  3. Vulnerability Isn’t a Weakness. It’s Magnetic.
    There’s something disarming about admitting, “Hey, I have no idea what I’m doing here.” (My dance partner even said it made me “endearing.” Who knew?) If dating or relationships teach us anything, it’s that the walls we put up rarely protect us; they just keep the good stuff out. Vulnerability? That lets the good stuff in.

  4. Everything Is More Fun When You Stop Overthinking.
    By the end of my third salsa class, I was swaying to music without counting every step in my head. I hadn’t won an award for Best Improver, but I had started enjoying myself. Turns out, when you let go of control, you make space for joy.

The Final Spin: A New Fearless Me?

Okay, let’s be real. I’m not about to audition for the next Burna Boy music video. But something did change after I went back to that salsa class week after week. I started saying “yes” to things I usually avoided: karaoke nights, small improv sessions, and, once in a while, the dance floor at weddings with cousins who still remembered my infamous seven-year-old performance.

The biggest surprise? These little acts of bravery expanded my world in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve made new friends, felt fewer “what if” regrets, and realized that being bad at something—whether it’s salsa or small talk—isn’t the end of the world. Sometimes, it’s just the beginning of a great story.

So here’s my challenge to you: What’s your “salsa”? What’s the thing you’ve been avoiding because it makes you uncomfortable? Maybe it’s not dancing. Maybe it’s the scary first date, the tough conversation, or the job opportunity that seems too big. Whatever it is, you owe it to yourself to try. Because trust me—your fears look a lot bigger in your head than they ever will in real life. And who knows? You might even find joy in the unexpected.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a salsa playlist to practice with. Loosen up—it’s salsa, not surgery.