The space between apology and repair

Dancing as an act of co-creation — for the duration of the song, the only things that exist are the music, the two people dancing, and whatever they create in that time.

Being fully aware of its impermanence — in a couple of minutes it will be just a pleasant moment, never to be experienced again in the exact same form.

I experience dancing on many levels — not only somatic, or intellectual, but emotional, energetic, relational.

It is such a beautiful way to inhabit my own body. To let myself be the vessel through which the music expresses itself.

Which is why it felt so jarring when, less than a minute into the song, my dance partner swapped with another one.

The sudden change is not only a surprise for the mind but a shock to the whole system. I had already attuned to the energy of my dance partner. And then, suddenly, another one took his place.

Probably the most confusing part is that I was there — an active participant in the co-creation, or so I thought.

I was never asked for consent.

From one of two contributors to our shared dance, I suddenly became an object in an arrangement between two men. They hadn't agreed to share the dance with me. They had agreed to share me.

I seemed to have lost my autonomy somewhere in between.

It had happened before. It had bothered me before. I had never said anything.

Not this time.

Within seconds of processing what was happening, I heard myself say: "You never asked me."

The surprise on his face. In all fairness, I was surprised too.

He explained that he had seen the other man standing at the side of the dancefloor and felt sorry for him. So he offered to "share me."

I understood his reasoning. It was well-meaning, and considerate. Towards the other man. And his comfort.

I was merely a vehicle in that act of consideration.

I insisted I had never been consulted while they were swapping.

I couldn't hear the music anymore, even though I knew it was still playing. I couldn't feel my body, even though I knew I was still dancing.

Is this what erasure feels like?

And then the song ended. The dance, too.

I could feel myself dissociating already — usually dancing brings me joy, but this was far from it, and it was too unexpected to stay present with.

And then he said: "You are right. I am sorry. And if it was the other way around, I would have felt the same.”

I did not expect that. Encounters like this rarely end this way — usually in silence, in avoidance, in a kind of shutdown, or dismissal. Almost never in something this warm, or this quick.

He got it. And he got it fast.

Photo by cottonbro studio

In the weeks that followed, I could notice the change in our dynamic. There was nothing specific I could point to — no particular word, no particular moment — but things felt different. Distant.

I recognised it. I have needed the same distance myself, after doing something I wished I hadn't.

I loved dancing with him, and now there was an invisible wedge that stopped us from doing so. There were moments I wished I had just kept quiet and absorbed it, like I usually used to do. 

This time, I chose to build trust with myself — to know I would show up for myself — even at the risk of losing great dances. I used to believe the 'right' decision meant no consequences. Every decision comes with a cost, and I was ready to grieve it and pay it. 

I also recognised that I must have felt safe enough to bring this to him, and that he must have been safe enough to hold it. I took solace in that. 

Genuine accountability rarely looks clean. It isn't sterile, or linear, or finished the moment the apology is spoken. It asks you to sit with having been seen in a moment you wish had gone differently. That's vulnerable. It's exposing. Uncomfortable.

And after some time, the same ease and fun from before returned. It hasn't always — but I am glad it did this time. 

If you're curious about what the space between apology and repair can look like in your own life, I'd be glad to explore it with you. You can reach me here.