I can't dance.

Even alcohol doesn't improve the situation. Not false humility.

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Dancing with Anxiety

Last Tuesday night’s banquet came too quickly—I had felt unsettled in my stomach all day, that uneasy feeling that comes from raw fear.

It wasn’t a fear of public speaking—I have no problem with that—nor was it a fear of new social interactions; people generally consider me an extrovert.

It was the event itself. Couples giddily headed to the dance floor when the disc jockey turned on the music. No amount of alcohol could give me rhythm.

The banquet could never just be a banquet; it had to be a banquet and a dance. As soon as I heard the second word, my anxiety started creeping in. It wasn’t just a fear of exposure but the sorrow of knowing I was incompetent in this most ancient courtship ritual.

Storybooks are filled with magic dance moments—looking into each other’s eyes, falling in love on the dance floor, the last waltz, floating toward someone as if weightless. But none of this is mine.

My magic moments involve helping the DJ carry out records or nursing a conveniently timed ankle sprain from the safety of the sidelines. It’s an insecurity so powerful it can stand up to three double rums and still whisper, You’re not winning this one.

I once attended a wedding and saw two hopelessly drunk young Russian guys. Their dancing was a chaotic series of spasmodic movements amplified by glorious inebriation—bad dancing by any standard. Yet, they were having the time of their lives.

I envied them.

It’s exhausting to stand outside the dance floor for an entire evening (and to design a social life around avoiding dancing). Sure, you can leave early—maybe knock off an hour. There’s the loitering strategy, searching desperately for another non-dancer who wants a deep conversation. You can stretch out drink line visits and extend bathroom breaks. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t waste an entire evening by the washrooms.

So, inevitably, I find myself standing outside the pulsating horde, trying to look as though I’ve just left the dance floor, maybe tapping my foot in a feigned moment of carefree enjoyment. What amazes me is how so many people on the floor genuinely enjoy themselves. That level of pleasure is utterly alien to me. Indeed, it may be the one area where the Taliban and I see eye to eye.

Don’t misunderstand me—I love music. My ears welcome it. I’m frequently told to turn it down. I waste too much time watching TikTok compilations of The Voice’s greatest performances. I appreciate rhythm, melodies, harmonies.

But the beat refuses to descend into my body. My arms and legs remain stubbornly uninspired. And when coerced onto the floor, I move but do not dance. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, attempting that “edge-of-the-dance-floor” move—just enough motion to appear engaged while maintaining an escape route. But I am not moving to the music; I am thinking about how I should have stayed on the fringes and prayed to preserve some dignity.

Every second, I long for the song to end. A fire alarm. A power failure. Anything to get me out of there.

This is not false humility. Until the sixth grade, I couldn’t even do a proper jumping jack. My classmates laughed, but I never saw the point of all that unnecessary coordination. I could walk, tie my shoes, and do all the basics—wasn’t that enough? Some level of coordination arrived with sports in my teen years, but dance-floor paralysis remained.

It would be my first dance if I could trace this phobia to a single moment. It was the late seventies at Viscount Alexander School in Winnipeg. The lights dimmed, and there I was. Right foot right, left foot over to meet it, left foot left, right foot over to meet it. A shuffle is reminiscent of a metronome—precise, mechanical.

“Nice dancing,” came a smirking voice.

Another chimed in, “Where’d you learn to dance?”

At that moment, my confidence shattered. I was relieved of one childhood delusion: I could move on the dance floor and fit in. I had no ambitions of being great—just to be invisible among the moving bodies. But that night, I left the dance in tears, furious at a world that would condemn me for something so small.

I grew up in a WASP-ish home where classical music played, but no one danced. As far as I could tell, no one even considered dancing.

Now, I sometimes spot a few other dancing mules when I look at a dance floor. But they seem oblivious to their rhythmic shortcomings.

Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

Dancing, for me, remains pure torment.