My face gets hot and I feel a flush creep up the front of my neck. I’ve never been one of those people who can hide my emotions. I feel like a total idiot. Why did I think it was such a great idea to take my first dance class at forty?

I’d left a December trip to Jerusalem feeling totally inspired by a holiday concert where I saw Ornili Azulay perform. The elegance of her movements, the whipping shawl, and rhythmic beat of her feet left me feeling breathless and flushed with longing.

I want to be able to do that.

It feels like a nod from the universe when I find a teacher in Milan with a group flamenco program. It’s beginning just days after I first email her.

My teacher Maria mostly teaches in Italian and Spanish (neither are languages I speak fluently). But I have funny, wonderful women in class who translate for me. “Il culo means butt or ass,” Lucia hollers at me from the back of the class.

I have to laugh. I’m motivated to connect with these women which means I must get better at dancing and italian. My teacher says, “We all speak the international language of dance.” But there are some days in class, where I think some people speak it a little better than others.

There is no doubt that I’m the worst dancer in our class. There are layers to my failure and my inner perfectionist feels them deeply. I don’t speak the language. I have little to no classical understanding of dance. I don't have a clue what first or third position is. Most of the time I feel like a gawky teenager.

After class you’ll find me watching youtube videos trying to learn Italian, Flamenco, and classical dance positions. I’m way behind the curve. Most days, I’m struggling to get my brain to make my feet, arms and head work together without looking like a manic marionette. This is what failing looks like.

It turns out that completely by accident, I’ve scheduled myself for failure every week. It might sound strange but I’m beginning to fall in love with myself through my weekly failure. It’s either a practice of self love or demented exposure therapy. Sure, I often feel embarrassed in class. I’ve cried a few times on the way back home because I feel “not good enough”. But it doesn’t kill me. In fact, it makes. me like myself a little bit more for simply being able to try.

When I’m not wrestling my inner grimlins, I can almost always find something new that I learned in class on my walk home. Foot work, head position, even rotating my fingers. Essentially, I’m changing a story that could be about shame or “not enoughness” into one about bravery and self love.

One more thing, too often musings on failure are linked to striving or toxic hustle culture. Like, I fail until I succeed or some such shit. That’s not what this story is about. This story is about listening to the voice that whispers, “I want to do that.” And having the audacity to love yourself when whatever “that” is so much harder than you expect. Loving yourself in spite of the failure, without the expectation that you will ever become “good” at it. Doing things simple for the joy they create within you.

Consider this a permission slip. You are allowed to listen to the whisper. Allow yourself to try something new. You can be less than perfect. You can fail regularly and still like yourself a little better in the process.

I want that for you. I hope you learn to dance to the strum of your longings. For me, that was flashing shawls, rising beats, roses, and castanets. What will it be for you? If you find it, please let me know.

P.S. You might be wondering what this story has to do with my business and why it’s in my blog. But stories are my business, I love helping people excavate theirs in podcasts, books, websites, and media campaigns using the science behind storytelling to help you connect with others and make a difference in the world. It’s only fair that I also share some of my own.

Keep Doing The Things You Want To Do....Even When You Suck at Them.