Tango: Don't (always) believe what you believe.

In the world of tango, every step is a conversation, every embrace an exploration. It’s a dance where technical mastery intertwines with deep emotional connection. During a class at Escuela del Abrazo, a student posed a question that struck a chord: “How do I find myself?” The simplicity of the question belied its depth. It wasn’t just about tango; it was about understanding who we are before offering ourselves to another in the embrace.

María Olivera being playful, light and yet grounded.

This question stayed with me, nudging me to reflect on my own journey. For years, I had been described as a “light” dancer. Compliments like “you’re as light as a feather” and “like a butterfly” became a source of pride, a marker of what I believed made my style unique. Yet, there was another side to this perception. Some of my most cherished dance partners confided that my lightness made it difficult for them to connect with me. They struggled to sense my grounding, to locate where I was on the floor.

At first, this feedback stung. Why was something so often praised now seen as a flaw? It was frustrating and confusing, particularly when the critique came from a partner whose opinion I deeply valued. In my mind, grounding equated to heaviness, which I instinctively resisted. The idea of altering my technique felt like losing a part of what defined me as a dancer.

For months, I wrestled with this feedback, unable to find a resolution. It wasn’t until that pivotal question from my student echoed in my mind that I began to see things differently. How could I “find myself” in my own dance? One afternoon, lying in bed, the answer began to take shape. I realized I was constantly in a state of alertness—a low-level tension coursing through my body that kept me perpetually “ready to go.” This hyper-awareness meant I wasn’t fully present in the embrace; instead, I was preemptively completing movements, controlling the dance rather than sharing it.

The solution, surprisingly, wasn’t about doing more—it was about doing less. By focusing on releasing unnecessary tension and grounding myself through subtle engagement in my pelvic floor, I discovered a newfound balance. I could remain light yet connected, grounded without being heavy.

The transformation was immediate. Dancing with my favorite partner, we both felt an ease and harmony that had eluded us for so long. Other partners commented on how present I felt, describing my movements as “silky on the floor.” I finally understood the delicate interplay of strength and surrender that makes tango even more profound.

Tango is more than a dance; it’s a mirror reflecting our inner selves. Through it, I learned to let go, to trust, and to be present—lessons that resonate far beyond the dance floor. The journey to “find myself” continues, but in tango, as in life, it’s the dance itself that holds the answers.