I close my door, I close the blinds, I turn on my speaker and I hit play to a dreamy indie rock song that I have been listening to over and over again on the subway during my commute to work. I am ready to move to it. I change my tight jeans and sweater to small shorts and an oversized shirt. I roll socks on and throw my hair up in a messy ponytail. I close my eyes and begin to dance. I move throughout the room like I am at my own personal nightclub, throwing my arms back and forth, extending my legs, and shaking my hips from side to side. I spin and lift and drop and look at myself in the mirror. I see me. I feel present. This is my meditation. This is how I find me.
As a choreographer, movement fulfills my soul, satisfies my creative instincts and gives me purpose, but when I’m sad or angry or depressed or feeling self-doubt…I let go of the aesthetics, how things look or what they should be choreographically or visually, and I just let my body go and move.
To dance alone in your room may sound like something a teenager does while clutching a yearbook photo of her high school crush, and yes, I’ve done that too. I used to dance in my room during my awkward middle school years, pretending I was on stage in front of a huge audience, though in reality my stuffed koala bear and American girl dolls had to suffice. As a teen, I would use my room to cope during the years of tears, heart ache, crushes, and identity seeking. Dancing to Madonna and then later to punk and indie rock bands, I found ways to move that led me to understand who I was and what made me happy.
And today, in my thirties, that hasn’t changed. In my small, cute-sized room in my Brooklyn apartment, I still find myself thrashing and gyrating to release my inner-feelings, and to find who I am. My search for my identity hasn’t stopped, and my desire to move and dance through life hasn’t stopped either.
This is my self-care: to blast a new favorite song, to let the tension in my body release, and to just give up on trying to be a persona of myself. No one is looking at me, except for myself. No one is there to judge, to ask questions, to see what I’m doing. It’s just me in my room, with the music.
And the audience, now that I’m older, is not so much my stuffed animals anymore, but more so the difference facets of me. A younger version of myself meets the older version of myself and we sway together in a harmony that’s like no other. The beat becomes our version of time, and my body becomes a vessel of expression and rhythm. No need for my worries about what I am going to do or how I will feel later. I can worry about that stuff in the future. Right now, it’s just about me, the music, and my body.
Author: Taylor Donofrio
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Taylor Donofrio is a Brooklyn based choreographer and performer. Taylor creates movement to offer a visceral and cerebral experience for her audience. She collaborates with filmmakers, musicians, and visual artists to create and expand upon the ideas of movement and art. She is the Artistic Director, of Donofrio Dance Company, an emerging modern dance company based in Brooklyn, NY. Taylor is a film enthusiast and music lover and frequents underground music venues and quiet movie theaters whenever she can.
Link to social media or website: Instagram @tay.donofrio
