dance in that gazebo.

As I drove to an Orangetheory class this morning, just a few miles away from my parents’ house (my childhood home), I passed a white gazebo in the center of our small town. I’ve driven past this gazebo one million and one times, usually not taking much notice of the tree-lined streets and early blooms of spring in New Jersey. I flew here late last week after a short trip in San Diego, heading back east to celebrate my niece turning two and my mother’s “birthday week” as she likes to call it (birthday month, if she’s feeling extra zealous… if you want a rant on finding more child-like wonder in the small moments of life like my mother does with birthdays, refer to last week’s post which now also has a voiceover).

For some reason, something about this particular morning—maybe the magic of the date 4.24.24 (repeating angel numbers), or maybe having the day off to drive to Long Island, or maybe the lingering bliss of seeing my childhood bestie last night—made seeing this gazebo resonate deeply. It brought a full smile to my face and I kind of just entered my own world for a bit (while remaining completely alert on the road, don’t worry).

When I was younger, taking walks with Mom was commonplace. We walked almost daily (and mostly still do when I’m visiting home). We walked to school, home from school, to the library, to the park, to summer camp, to CVS, to no destination at all, sometimes. But whenever we walked past this gazebo, little Courtney couldn’t help but squeal with delight, run over to it, and start dancing as if I were giving a performance to Mom. She’d let me relish in my young joy for a while, this feeling like I was on a Broadway stage or entertaining large groups of audiences. I’d stand confidently in the center, taking up space, and twirl around—sometimes tapping, sometimes doing ballet, sometimes just straight up free-styling (probably not very well, that style is definitely not my strong suit). I’d pretend that the cars passing by were there just to see me, just to be dazzled by my presence and grace. I thought I was a star. I was a star. I don’t remember having an ounce of self-consciousness or fear or awkwardness. I just did my thing.

Seeing that gazebo now, I took a moment to honor that little girl who was free. Somewhere along the way, she internalized so much programming about how it is “acceptable” to show up in society—about how to look, how to act, how to speak, how to exist—especially as a girl and woman. I learned and internalized shame about my body through organized dance classes where my arms and legs were always just a little bit more flail-y and awkward and longer than others. I learned from general late-90s and early-2000s society that I had to “suck in” and shrink my distended stomach (thank you, then-unknown and out-of-control gluten intolerance). I learned shame of random moles and marks and rampaging eczema on my skin from teasing boys in elementary school and probably-well-meaning small children who are just curious but don’t realize the lasting pain their comments inflict. The years and years and years of comments and programming compound and eventually you just stop dancing in gazebos on a walk because you’re just so effing self-aware.

This gazebo was my stage in this small town (in addition to the top of an elegant staircase that led up to the entrance of a funeral home in town—not the best place to put on a show for your mother and passing cars, but little Courtney just couldn’t pass up a grand staircase like that, you know?). My own house was a stage as I put on concerts and performances for invisible audiences and twirled around and around as I pleased. Driving to Orangetheory, passing the gazebo, it occurred to me that the only times I ever dance around freely like that is alone in my office. I have solo dance parties all the time, but I die inside at the thought of dancing for an audience again. I don’t even like when people sing “Happy Birthday” for me because it’s too many eyes focused on me. This kind of social anxiety and constant worrying of what people are thinking about me is exhausting.

There’s a picture of me when I was eight, surrounded by other friends and cousins my age, at a birthday party at my aunt’s house. In it, I am wearing this vibrant orange one-piece bathing suit with colored swirls and spots on it. I look back and wonder now if I chose a one-piece because I was too embarrassed of my bloated belly to wear a two-piece. I look at this picture and want to cry for that small girl. By that point, I had already learned to think that I was fat (even though I so obviously wasn’t) and already learned that I wanted to hide my “flaws.” I see pain in her eyes because I can remember how purely uncomfortable I felt that day. I don’t have very many vivid memories from childhood, but that day is so crystal-clear. It was one of the first times that I just wanted to disappear into the background. In the picture, I am hunching forward as much as I can to hide my stomach. That poor little girl never really stopped hiding after that. [Unfortunately I couldn’t hunt down this picture in time for this post, but just believe me on it.]

And then she grew up into an adult and I’m trying to be better for her. I’m trying to channel some of the strategies related to “not giving a fuck” of what people think of you. (For some of those said strategies, scroll down to the “mind” section of this “find your flow” post.) But man, it’s hard to untangle those years of programming and changing those neural pathways that default to worrying.

But change only comes with conscious effort. Last week in San Diego, the two girls who I was with and I decided to go on a paddleboarding tour in La Jolla. I put on my windbreaker that I wear on all my paddleboarding excursions and a bucket hat that often accompanies me, too. What I didn’t realize is that we’d also have to wear helmets and life-jackets the whole time (I mean, I realize safety first, but for some reason it eluded me that we were paddleboarding on the actual-freaking-ocean and would need actual-freaking-protective gear). Anyway, these additional items took an already-dorky getup to a whole different level. Naturally, we all laughed about it and it became a joke, and I didn’t really care because I didn’t know any of these people and I felt comfortable with these friends.

On the ocean, one of the girls was randomly shooting pictures with her phone that was tucked into a waterproof bag. When we got back to our Airbnb later that day, she was going through them and the sheer reality of how ridiculous I actually looked manifested before me. Going through them and zooming in on some of the candid shots with me in the them was belly-laughter inducing. I straight up looked like a child miner. Or an “aquatic unibomber,” according to A. We rolled around roaring with laughing at these pictures for almost twenty minutes straight, the kind of laughter that makes you feel like you’re actually developing a six-pack from it.

We had all shared some pictures on Instagram from the paddleboarding tour, and one of the girls posted one of the extra-funny pictures of me with a caption about taking safety super seriously. I laughed when I saw it, especially because the tour company had commented on it, but I had a moment of panic and self-doubt when I went to re-post it on my own story.

All the sudden, I was FLOODED with an endless stream of worrying chatter. Why do my face proportions look so off? Where’s my chin? Why don’t I look like I have a nose? Why am I obviously mouth-breathing? What if Sally Soo from high school or Johnny Doe from elementary school thought I looked ugly? (Not real people, but fill in the blank with literally anyone that went to school with me and I’m sure I worried about them.) I sat silently in this paralysis for almost five minutes, debating if I should re-share it or not.

And suddenly it occurred to me… WHO CARES?! I haven’t seen Sally or Johnny in years. They probably don’t even see my Instagram. They probably aren’t even really looking at it, even if they see it. They might even think it’s funny! No one cares about my chin! Or my nose! Or my mouth-breathing! (Except maybe A. when I’m snoring at night—sorry, love!)

It literally doesn’t matter.

I just had to let it go and be me.

I share this with the hope that someone out there can relate, can find themselves in this story. It’s so hard to exist in this super-connected and social world. It’s even harder to exist in this space when so many people hide behind Photoshop or professional editing. We get bombarded about programming about products and tools that will make us look better and “miracle fixes” that will get rid of our wrinkles or give us a jaw-line back. We’ve been hearing about how to look “ideal” or like “the perfect woman” for our entire lives. And I’m tired of it—tired of not sharing something on social media because I don’t look exactly the way I want or because I look like a goon and someone might judge me for it. I’m tired of not having a random dance party on the beach because people tanning around me might think I’m weird. I’m tired of not taking a video or picture or not having fun recreating a reel because someone on the boardwalk might think I’m trying to be an influencer and how lame and embarrassing of me is that? (Both of these are things that one of my dear friends in San Diego encouraged last weekend and I’m so grateful to her for helping to pull out some self-confidence whether she knew the extent of it or not.)

I’m tired of not dancing in the damn gazebo because I might be bloated or that someone I know might drive past.

On that drive to Orangetheory this morning, I reflected on all of this. I was proud of myself for actually re-sharing the Instagram story and proud of myself for all the micro-decisions I’ve made recently that are helping me reprogram this fear I have of being in the spotlight. As the tree-lined streets blurred by my window, I felt just a little bit lighter.

It’s okay to laugh at yourself and have fun. It’s also okay to take the spotlight, even in an imperfect way. In fact, I’d argue that the imperfect way is even better. Because perfection is overrated, anyway. And your inner child just wants to be free.

So if this resonates with you, come dance with me in that white gazebo. I’ll be waiting.

xx

Courtney