There comes a moment in everyone’s life where you have to stop making excuses, take a good look at yourself, and really face the difference between who you are and who you aspire to be. For me, that moment arrived a few months ago. I could no longer ignore the full and joyful life I felt I was missing out on. It was finally time to learn to salsa.
I consider myself a pretty good dancer overall. Put me in a club, and I’ll be right in the middle of the dance floor. Invite me to a wedding, and I’ll have everyone thinking I’m a professional party starter. Hip-hop, old-school disco, merengue, bachata—even my cumbia isn’t bad. But salsa? Salsa had always been my dance nemesis. It wasn’t about the steps or the rhythm; it was because, for women, salsa traditionally requires being led.
The music could be incredible, the rhythm building from my feet all the way up, but as soon as I got on the dance floor and my partner started to guide me, my body would just freeze. Around us, couples would be moving together so smoothly and seductively, while my poor partner was stuck trying to maneuver me like a stubborn top. Eventually, we’d both just give up.
I can trace this problem back to college in the 90s. During the day, I was reading feminist theory, all about taking control and breaking free from gender roles. But then, on weekends, the small group of Latino students at my mostly white college would get together to dance. The gap between the idea of owning my body and the physical surrender salsa needed was just too much for my young mind to handle. As I got older and experienced sexism in real life, not just in books, my discomfort just grew stronger.
But I was missing out on fun. And it felt like something deeper was missing too. It wasn’t just that I wanted to dance salsa. I felt, deep down, that I should be dancing salsa. And dancing it well.
I’m a proud New Yorker, and salsa is as New York as a bagel. We even have our own style, “salsa on 2,” where you break on the second beat. Its musical roots are in Cuba, but salsa as most people know it was born in the dance halls of my city. It’s also a part of my Puerto Rican heritage. During its golden age in the 60s and 70s, New York salsa wasn’t just music; it was a sound of empowerment and pride. When I see people dance salsa well, it feels like watching pure freedom. I’m not talking about fancy TV dance shows; I mean the kind of moves you see at a neighborhood party or a family celebration. My resistance to being led on the dance floor was keeping me from fully embracing my culture.
Near my place in Brooklyn, there’s a salsa studio I’d walked past for years, always wishing I could go in. Finally, I did, and signed up for private lessons. I’d spent my whole adult life being a leader, and I was finally ready to admit I wanted to learn how to follow.
I never expected that Andy, my dance instructor, would give me more insights than years of therapy. Andy wasn’t really into deep talks—we had a lot of dance steps to get through in each lesson. But after showing me the basics, and noticing I already knew a lot, he asked why I was really there. When I told him I struggled with being led, he became a direct and insightful coach, offering simple advice that felt like a revelation. Right away, it became clear that what was stopping me from being a good dance partner wasn’t really about dancing at all.
First, he stopped me because I kept looking at my feet instead of at him. When I said I wanted to make sure I was doing everything right, he reminded me that it was about dancing together, not just about my individual performance. He said eye contact would help us move together better.
My homework was to practice one move—the Cross Body Lead—until it felt as natural as walking. “If you get this right,” Andy told me, “it shows your partner that you’re making space for them to lead, and who doesn’t Want To Dance With Somebody who makes space for them?” Walking home, I wondered how many of my relationships had faded because we were too focused on our own goals to make space for each other.
The next week, my Cross Body Lead was perfect. But now, I was moving from one step to the next without waiting for Andy’s signals—the hand movements and touches a leader uses to guide the follower. “What you think is coming next isn’t the same as reading my signals,” he said. Basically, the dance is a conversation, and I wasn’t listening.
Then, Andy stopped me again. He explained that, at its core, I needed to trust that my partner wanted me to look good and have fun. I needed to believe that if I let my partner lead, they would sense what moves I enjoyed and take us there.
This was much harder than it sounded. Even if I intellectually understood it.
In the 1990 documentary Paris Is Burning, ballroom legend Willi Ninja teaches aspiring models how to “walk.” He explains that New York City women are “a little bit harder” than other women, and the class is to help them regain some “softness” in their movements. He doesn’t say why they are harder, but he doesn’t need to.
Like many New York women, I move through the crowded city and packed subways as if ready for anything. But my mindset of independence—for survival and defense—runs deeper. I wasn’t just a latchkey kid. “If you want to do it, figure it out” was the motto at home. I got my first job at 14. I filled out college applications and financial aid forms all by myself. Moving into my dorm, I was already an adult on my own. The feminist ideas I learned in college just gave words to a life I was already living: I could do it all, and do it all alone—because I had to.
Since then, I’ve been married, divorced, and had relationships of different lengths, but honestly, I’d never stopped seeing myself as an individual. Maybe that partly explains why relationships didn’t last. I realized in that salsa studio that even when I was dancing next to someone, I was still dancing alone.
Being an independent woman is a celebrated idea in modern feminism. There are keychains, mugs, and even a Beyoncé song praising our independence. “I can take myself dancing, / And I can hold my own hand, / Yeah I can love me better than you can,” sings Miley Cyrus. By these standards, I’m the picture of the feminist American dream. Without relying on a partner, I’ve built a secure, fulfilling, and creative life. I own my home, travel freely, and, like many single women today, I’m pretty happy.
But wanting to dance salsa made me ask a simple question: “If I wanted to change this part of my life, could I?” Not just, Could I find someone? but Could I truly share my life in a partnership, the way I am now? And I’m not sure of the answer. Maybe not without some changes.
I went into those classes thinking I needed to learn to be a follower in dance. But I learned that dancing with someone else requires a different way of thinking than dancing alone. It means paying attention and listening not just to the music, but to the other person. It means the leader needs to be thoughtful and anticipate. It means the follower needs to trust that someone else can guide you where you want to go, and perhaps, where you need to go. This applies both on and off the dance floor, when you want to dance with somebody in life.
I know salsa comes from a traditional culture. Some might roll their eyes at this, thinking I’m setting us back. That’s not what I want at all. I’m not trying to join any debates about marriage or family structures. Anyone can lead or follow in salsa, regardless of gender. I just happen to be a straight woman who likes dancing with men, and I want to enjoy that connection without outdated power dynamics.
Just like navigating New York streets makes women tough, being an “independent woman” (especially a woman of color) requires a constant focus on yourself. You’re in charge of your health, your money, your happiness, and maybe others too. And to protect all of this, you have to deal with systems that are biased against you. Anyone who does this deserves praise. But maybe in making feminism into slogans—saying we’re perfect as we are, we shouldn’t change—we’ve forgotten that being happily single and being happily partnered might need different skills. And neither should be seen as against feminism. Yes, we should celebrate independent women. But we should also appreciate women who choose partnership, because being flexible isn’t weak, especially if it brings us joy, and allows us to truly want to dance with somebody and enjoy the experience.
It just hit me while writing this that the first feminist in my life was also my favorite dance partner: my grandfather. He didn’t have any theories, just the belief that his four daughters (and me) deserved to be happy, however that looked. He wasn’t a great dancer. His Puerto Rican background didn’t seem to help with rhythm. But later in life, he loved to pull me onto the dance floor whenever he could. We weren’t the best dancers, but we didn’t care. We were completely free together out there.
