3 years.
22 foster homes.
(And a lot of bad statistics)
.
1994…
I was sitting inside of a police station, cold, in clothes that were too big for me, waiting for a new chapter of my life to begin. Underneath the fear, I felt the thrill of hope and anticipation.
The kind that makes you tingle.
After six years of sexual abuse, it was all going to change. I was going to go home, sleep in my bed without fear, re-learn what it was to be a child again. All my family had to do was choose me. I was so close. The police were about to give them a choice: ask my abuser to leave and take me home, or choose him, which they would never do.
I listened through the thin walls as it happened. They chose him. After 6 years of daily abuse, I was now being sent into foster care. I spent the next 3 years moving through 22 foster homes, shuffling from strange face to strange face with a garbage bag of what little belonged to me. I was pregnant by 15 and petitioned for emancipation by 16. At 17 years old, my petition was granted. Shortly after, with my baby girl in the backseat, I parked in a safe neighborhood to sleep in my car for the night. I wondered how I had messed up my life so badly...
We often hear stories of redemption. We rarely hear about the middle part; the part where you make one bad decision after another because you can’t understand that you may be worth anything more than a life of meager survival.
I clawed my way through the next decade. In foster care, judges, social workers, and foster parents liked to quote this statistic…a lot:
"75% of foster children end up incarcerated, homeless, or on drugs."
Sometimes they'd even add "dead" in that statistic for good measure. Super empowering. With that as my script, I lived on the brink of disaster.
How is the worst thing that ever happened to you actually the best thing that ever happened to you?
The other 25%
I moved forward. Not in spite of my past, but because of it. Although I couldn’t see it then, the grit and perseverance I was developing were setting the stage for a powerful future. And as I moved forward, I made a discovery: my Animus.
An Animus is defined as both a hostile feeling and a deep motivation. In other words, that deep burning in the belly…that thing that riles you up. My animus is loneliness. The work I do can always be traced to that single motivation. That anyone should suffer from loneliness hurts me to my core. In my day-to-day life, this plays out in two ways: dance and business. Both require problem-solving. Both can build powerful communities. Both can create something from nothing in a way that moves the world forward.
Eight years after emancipating, I found myself in a dance studio, and I knew immediately: I was home. I had never felt joy the way I did with dance. This expression engaged my whole being: mind, body, spirit, without asking me if I wanted to "talk about it".
And I have found that dance has power further beyond what it does for me. It is another language. In some ways, a safer one. It allows me to talk with others about subjects that verbal conversation may not. It offers dropped defenses and the ability to raise awareness, honor stories, and offer healing.
As an artist, I've done so much: I've published a book, I've choreographed a concert based on the stories of human trafficking survivors. I've created projects based on the pure joy of unity. I directed a series of videos based on the roots and history of my dancers.
My Story in Action
A few years ago, a great team and I turned my story in an evening-length show:
2021
I opened my own small brick-and-mortar + e-commerce studio in 2010 with the goal of building a six-figure business with zero debt. I ran the business for eleven years, and after surpassing my goal, passed it on to a new operator.
2022
I now put all of my focus on community-first projects, in both work and choreography.
Coming in spring:
Rise: My Story
In 1988 my world came apart.
In 1994 I went into foster care.
22 homes and one baby later, I moved into my car. This is my story.
