Before my husband died, we used to dance around the house—silly little moments that were just ours. After he was gone, I couldn’t bear to listen to the songs we used to love. Music reminded me too much of him, too much of what I had lost. For months, I avoided it altogether. The silence was easier to handle.

But one evening, while cleaning up, a song came on the radio—one we used to dance to. My first instinct was to turn it off, but something in me stopped. I stood there, frozen, listening as the familiar melody filled the room. And then, without thinking, I started moving. At first, it felt awkward, like I was trying to move through thick air, but slowly, my body found its rhythm. I closed my eyes and let the music take over.

I danced until I was out of breath, my heart pounding, tears streaming down my face. But for the first time in a long time, I felt alive. The music didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me a way to express it, to release some of the weight I had been carrying.

After that night, I started dancing more often. I’d put on my favorite songs and let myself go, moving however I felt in the moment. It became my way of coping, of feeling connected to something joyful in the midst of my grief. Dance became my therapy—a way to release emotions I didn’t have words for. It didn’t bring him back, but it reminded me that I could still move forward, even when the music felt different without him.