The Space Between Steps

Our youngest daughter was born a dance teacher. She’s the kind who corrects your frame with love and somehow convinces you that you can glide across a ballroom floor instead of shuffling awkwardly with two left feet. Every one of her students that I’ve met adores her, and my heart swells with pride watching her do what she loves.

For years, we’ve travelled to watch her compete as a dancer and later to watch her perform with her students at competitions. We sit in ballrooms filled with sequins, polished shoes, glitter, and the unmistakable scent of hairspray.

At one competition, we met two of her students — a couple walking slowly toward the dance floor, hand in hand. Their hair was silver, their steps a little less steady, but when the music began, they danced. Really danced. Their unsteady steps became solid, their frames a little straighter.

Ninety-one and ninety-three, still moving together with grace.

I squeezed Tom’s hand and whispered, “That’s who I want us to be when we’re older.”

Watching them, I realized something beautiful — the magic wasn’t really in the steps. It was in the quiet space between them, where two people moved together without needing words.

Letting Him Lead

Truthfully, I’ve always been captivated by ballroom dancing. One of my favourite movies is Shall We Dance — the elegance, the connection, the idea of stepping out for an evening simply to dance for the joy of it.

But I’ve always told myself I can’t dance.

Still, the dream lingered quietly.

Tom took dance lessons in high school and remembers them fondly. It’s something he missed out on over the years because I never felt capable or confident enough to try.

This past Christmas, our daughter and her partner surprised us with ballroom lessons at the studio where she works. Just after the holidays, we stepped onto the dance floor for the first time.

That first lesson felt unexpectedly intense — like two old lovers meeting again after years apart. Familiar, comforting, and strangely awkward all at once. As if we knew each other deeply, but had to learn who we are now.

We started with tango, foxtrot, rumba, waltz, and swing. In tango, there’s a dramatic moment where you’re meant to turn your head away from your partner — a stylized rejection.

I couldn’t do it.

It felt right to stay connected, looking into Tom’s eyes.

Somewhere between those hesitant first steps and the quiet counting under our breath, we realized something else: I was often leading.

Tom and the teacher would gently remind me to let Tom lead.

And that’s when it hit me — I didn’t actually know how.

It wasn’t about a lack of trust. It was habit. Developed over years through stress, uncertainty, and seasons that required steadiness as our roles slowly shifted. I became the anticipator, the planner, the one who stepped first — not because I wanted to, but because someone had to.

Fifteen years of leading is hard to undo in a few dance lessons.

Practicing Patience

Unlike many couples, after class we don’t simply leave and forget about dance until the next lesson.

After each class, Tom writes out the steps. We practice four times a week — sometimes in our small living room, carefully pushing furniture aside, sometimes bundled in winter coats in the driveway for extra space, turning pavement into our own little ballroom.

If Tom forgets a step, we stop.

No pressure. No frustration.

We either start again or wait until the next lesson so our teacher can help us remember.

We’ve learned something important through all of this: pressure doesn’t produce progress.

Patience does.

There’s a layer most people in the studio don’t see. Memory doesn’t always cooperate the way it once did. Steps that might stick easily for others take repetition for us.

But there’s something poetic in that.

Tom relates ballroom to drill from his military days — structured steps, clear signals, precision. In many ways, it gives him space to thrive.

And me? I’ve discovered something surprising — or maybe something I had forgotten about myself.

I’m a natural follower.

Relaxed. Responsive. Fluid.

When I dance with the instructor, following comes easily. When Tom dances with the instructor, he leads confidently.

But when Tom dances with me, something shifts.

I brace.

I anticipate.

I step a fraction of a beat ahead.

It’s hard to stop leading someone you’ve loved through life.

Learning to Follow

And yet, slowly, with each lesson, something is changing.

In most dances, Tom uses his frame — his hand gently placed on my back — to guide me.

At first, that touch felt like pressure, like being forced in a direction before I was ready.

Now it feels different.

It feels like support. Guidance. Steadiness.

Learning the non-verbal language of dance tells me where we’re going before my mind has time to overthink it. I’m learning to let my brain quiet. To simply be in the music instead of managing the moment.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t have to anticipate the next step.

It’s liberating.

And a little scary.

And if I’m honest, still hard to do sometimes.

Following doesn’t mean disappearing. In dance, following requires strength, awareness, and presence. If he pulls too tight, I gently push back. If he hesitates, I wait.

We adjust.

It’s a conversation without words.

We’re learning that even when we make a mistake, the most important thing is that we move together.

We still forget. We still stumble. There’s always a quiet awareness that time is precious and memory is not something we take for granted.

But when the music starts, those worries soften.

And when we finally nail a sequence — really nail it — I usually forget the next steps entirely and just hug Tom.

The beautiful thing about dance is that you can always reset. Lose the rhythm? Find it again. There’s no shame in starting over.

It took us almost fifteen years to step into the ballroom together.

But learning to dance in this season of life feels like exactly the right moment.

He leads.

I follow.

And somewhere between the steps, we are rediscovering each other.

The Space Between Steps

I’m grateful for what ballroom dance is giving us.

When we started, my goal was simple: to join the social dancing at competitions without feeling embarrassed.

But somewhere between the lessons, the driveway practices, and the laughter when we get the steps completely wrong, dance has become something else entirely.

It’s bringing light into days that might otherwise feel a little quiet.

Tom and I live a simple life these days. Neither of us works. Our days move slower than we once imagined they would. But dance has given our days rhythm again.

Not all the magic happens on the dance floor.

Sometimes it happens in our small living room.

Sometimes bundled in winter coats in the driveway.

Sometimes in the laughter that follows a missed step.

Dance is teaching me something I didn’t realize I needed to learn.

I don’t always have to lead.

I can trust Tom to guide us forward, and support him in a different way — by following.

This summer, when we leave for our sailing trip, our dance floor may become docks, quiet shores, or the gently rocking deck of our boat. I’m not entirely sure how well a waltz works on a moving deck, but part of me is looking forward to finding out.

Sailing, like dancing, is about rhythm . You can’t force the wind any more than you can force the music. You listen, you adjust, and you move together.

And even if we forget the steps…

we’ll keep dancing.

Because somewhere in the space between the steps — and somewhere between the wind and the water — we’re still finding our way back to each other.