No matter what we settle for, there will always be an interminable dream inside of us, raging until the day we die. In the absence of satisfaction, which I’m resigned to knowing I’ll never have in its entirety, we can escape. We should. There’s a satisfaction to be found there, too.

But how? The simplest, most ubiquitous answer might just be to take a few shots and let loose on the dance floor. I could certainly do the drinking, but for a long while, I could not for the life of me let loose.

It wasn’t always this way. I used to fight for my right to let loose. As a cute, chubby little six-year-old I was enrolled in dance classes leading up to a performance at TATA Telugu Nite—which at the time seemed like the apex of the Telugu experience in North Carolina’s Triangle region. 

I was prepared to rise to the occasion. I braced myself for weekly practices a 30-minute drive away from home, potential embarrassment, and serious physical exertion (relative to the fact my main hobby at the time was watching Spongebob Squarepants). Despite psyching myself up for this seemingly herculean undertaking of performance, upon arrival, I was immediately disrespected.

The dance was to be a medley of two songs from the 2009 Telugu film Arya 2, with myself and my fellow dancers being arranged in a V-formation, with the bottom of the V extending to the front of the stage; there would be a star to our show—the boy at the bottom of the V and the front of the stage. 

I was not anointed that star. I was as far away from the front of the stage as possible. At practice, I couldn’t even see the aunty who was teaching us the choreography because my view was obscured by the other kids. 

How could this be? How did aunty not know of my dream? No one dreams of being at the back of the stage. I was to be a star. One way or another it would happen.

Come the day of the performance, with seemingly hundreds of perhaps slightly disinterested Telugu people, our troupe waited behind the stage curtains. As they opened, the crowd saw something different than what they would have seen on day 1 of our dance practice. There was a new star.

And it was me. Over months of practice, I’d impressed the choreographer enough to be moved to the front of the V. On stage that night, we danced for three and a half minutes, offbeat, clumsy, and awkward. It was 16 years ago, and I still remember the applause that rang out after the conclusion of our performance. I now doubt its genuinity, but at the time I was convinced. Dance was my life, and nothing would ever take it away from me.  I was a star, and I always would be.

And then I only did one more performance before quitting. The choreographer made us buy High School Musical costumes for the show. Wearing that glittery top and those white pants made me want to do anything but dance. Plus, I was sick of sitting in the car for an hour every practice day to get to the choreographer’s house and back home. Just as fast as dance became my everything, it became dead to me.

Years passed, and I would never dance. The thing is, though, my aversion to letting loose and dancing was not out of discomfort with the act of dancing itself, but rather a more classic case of anxiety.

Performance is something else entirely. There’s an understanding from your audience that you’re putting yourself out there, and taking a huge risk in rendering yourself so vulnerable to others’ perception. I think, generally, audiences are forgiving of that, making the lives of performers just a little easier. But in the real world, at a club, or at a party, dance is not a performance. It’s a reflection of how free, cool, or confident a person is. For a long time, like most other teenagers, I imagine, I wasn’t any of those things. I didn’t dance.

But inside, I wanted to. I’ve danced in the shower, in my bedroom, and in my dreams. When I would actually get the chance to, though, I was just a wallflower looking at the weather app on my phone. Did you guys know it’s hot as fuck in Singapore right now?

All those people around me knew me too well. They weren’t anonymous, like the audience at TATA Telugu Nite. They could actually perceive me. The risk was just too high. I couldn’t do it. I had to get away.

Enter the great city of Dublin. Did you know I studied abroad? I think I’ve only told you 27 times. The thing is, though, any city you immediately move to is going to feel a lot greater than it actually may be simply because it is not the city you were once in. It’s a new world filled with new possibilities, and the anonymity one is granted by not knowing anybody in their new city can be a gift, should one choose to accept.

I can happily report that I did. For the first time in my entire life, I was outgoing. I asked people where they were from. What they were interested in. If they were free for dinner. One thing led to another and a second first arrived: we were going to the club.

Now, I could’ve let my anxieties creep in again. I’d made a status for myself in Dublin: outgoing, fun, the life of the party—all things I had never ever been in my life. If I were to put pressure on myself, I could’ve started thinking that my performance at the club would have to live up to those standards.

But I didn’t do that. I instead thought, “I only have to see these people for another three months”. It was time to hit the dance floor.

I hit the dougie. The robot. A little shoulder shimmy. A whip and nae-nae (but ironically). Pretend there’s an invisible butt in front of you and start smacking it. Who gives a shit. I’ve had four shots of tequila already. Do the shoot dance and just start fucking kicking people on accident. Pretend you know Spanish and clutch your closest heterosexual friend of the same gender tightly and start doing a little salsa. A little more. Fuck it, we’re all in.

What a night. I couldn’t believe I had denied myself this pleasure for years. I was dancing not to dance well, not to look cool, and not because I had to. I did it because I wanted to. The kid inside of me said I had to. Since he’s told me that I feel like I’ve found a better version of myself—one that dances a lot more. I should listen to the kid inside of me more often. We all should. That kid’s dreams mean something.