Growing up, Cata and I both loved to dance—long before we ever met, and without even knowing we lived in the same country. I’ll let Cata share her own story, but for me, dancing was something I usually did alone, just me and my music. I’d close the door, turn the lights down, and let go. I’d shake it.
It was around the time I hit puberty that things got hard. My family moved to South Carolina so my dad could pursue his doctorate, and I was starting seventh grade. At first, I was excited for the change. But by second semester, the grass wasn’t as green as I’d hoped. What followed was one of the hardest seasons of my life—severe depression. I missed so much school they wanted to hold me back and even placed me in a special education class. It was humbling. And lonely.
I do remember one middle school teacher who helped me through that season—academically and emotionally. I can’t recall her name now, but she worked with students on cognitive skills, and she helped me find words for what I was feeling.
One Saturday night, I stumbled upon a jazz station playing reggae jazz. The house was quiet, my bedroom door closed, lights off. It felt like freedom. Just me, swaying to the rhythm. Then my older brother JJ walked in. He didn’t say anything—just started dancing too. I remember the smile on his face, and even though I couldn’t see my own reflection, I know I was smiling too.
I’ve always loved to sing and dance. Karaoke at parties, dancing at family gatherings—it all became more natural over time. In 2013, I started going to dance events through work. And when I moved to the U.S. in 2014, I looked for every opportunity to dance. I even found a studio and began taking lessons to get better.
Not long after that, one of my coworkers—someone I helped with dial-outs for interpreter testing—reached out to say she had changed departments. Her new manager was from Costa Rica and now living in Oregon. It was a Friday, I was free, and my eldest was with her mom. I felt confident and said, “Sure, let’s exchange contact info.” I called her, suggested coffee, but she couldn’t—she was heading up to Seattle.
The following weekend, she reached out again. I hadn’t replied before because I was off work, but that night, we got to talking. We learned so much about each other—though neither of us knew, at the time, that we both loved dancing.
Three weeks later, one of the salsa bands Cata knew was performing. We decided to go. At the end of our chat about the event, she asked, “Is this a date?” I laughed. “Well, perhaps.”
That first salsa night? It was amazing. We had so much fun. Just like that moment with JJ years before, even though we couldn’t see each other’s faces, we knew—we were smiling. And that night sparked many more salsa dances to come.
These days, life looks a little different. We don’t go dancing as often now—our two little girls, 2+ years and 11 months, keep us busy. But there’s still music. There’s still dancing. Most mornings after breakfast, our oldest starts the routine: she asks for her favorite songs—“Escándalo,” “Barnyard Dance,” “Cucú.” And we better get it right on the first try! She sings with her echo mic, or grabs her felt flower and spins, imitating the singers she sees on screen.
It fills the house with joy. With hope.
It reminds me of David in Scripture:
“David danced before the Lord with all his might.”
—2 Samuel 6:14
This is our worship too.
A Prayer to Close
Lord,
Thank You for the music that lifts our spirits,
for the rhythms that help us remember joy,
and for the sacred moments—both loud and quiet—
where we can move freely in Your presence.
Help us, like David, to dance with all our might before You—
not just in the easy seasons, but in the hard ones too.
Let our homes be filled with laughter, grace,
and the freedom to celebrate the good gifts You’ve given.
Amen.
Luke at This! 
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