Years ago, I was sitting in a darkened theater celebrating thirty years of community theatre in my small Colorado town.

I'd been in one of forty productions—not as a lead, but as a dancer in the ensemble of A Chorus Line—so I had no idea I would appear in the evening's retrospective.

Then, without warning, there I was.

Filling two enormous thirty-foot screens.

Me, twenty years younger, dancing in the finale of A Chorus Line.

Gold glitter vest. Matching top hat. Huge smile.

Completely, unmistakably alive.

And I burst into tears.

Because by then, I hadn't danced in twenty years.

Somewhere in the demands of motherhood, marriage, responsibility, and taking care of everyone else, I had stopped.

I wasn't grieving my younger body.

I was grieving a part of myself I'd left behind.

My joy. My expression. My playfulness. My aliveness.

And in that moment, I remembered:

She wasn't gone.

I didn't need to become twenty years younger.

I needed to reclaim the parts of myself I'd stopped expressing.

Finding my way back to dance became part of finding my way back to myself.

Sometimes we don't think our way back to ourselves.

Sometimes we dance our way back.

That's why I created Wild Divine.