Dancing Badly on Purpose: A Reclamation

From Pirouettes to Pure Chaos

I grew up doing ‘proper’ dancing – ballet, ballroom, jazz – the kind with tights, mirrors, and passive-aggressive mothers in the foyer. I was elegant. I was rhythmic. I once got a trophy for my cha cha. And now? I dance like I’ve been possessed by an ancient disco demon. On purpose.

You see, when you grow up being good at dancing, you also become a menace at home dance parties. Because you spend so much time perfecting technique and counting beats and trying to look elegant (oops), that when it’s time to just move? You go full chaos goblin. Elbows sharp, legs flailing, hair stuck to your lip gloss. Think: inflatable tube man outside a used car yard. That’s me. And I am proud.

Nowhere was this more evident than the time I was dancing in the lounge room with my nieces. They’re twenty years younger than me, and at the time full of pre-teen angst and Lady Gaga energy. We had one of those wild, giddy nights where you chuck on mum’s old records and the room turns into a time machine. 60s, 70s, 80s disco hits rattling through the walls. We’re jumping, laughing, being ridiculous. At one point, I say, “Alright girls, let’s actually dance properly for a second. You’ve got a school disco coming up, let me show you some moves.” And they look at me, scandalised. “We are dancing properly, Aunty Bry!” Cue horror. I had created two rhythmless beings. My legacy. Oops.

Healing Isn’t Always Pretty

Here’s the thing no one tells you: when you stop performing, you start healing. Movement isn’t just about choreography. It’s not always pliés and jazz hands. It can be raw. Grotesque. Awkward. Freeing. Dance has existed in every culture throughout history, long before TikTok and trophies. It was a ritual. A celebration. A mourning. A way to process the unspeakable through the body.

And then the patriarchy got involved and turned it into something women had to be good at to be allowed to enjoy. Suddenly it’s all about choreography and whether your thighs jiggle too much in bike shorts. Dance became performative. Structured. Pretty. And like most things women love or use to connect to themselves, it was co-opted. Controlled. Turned into something to be judged.

Dancing badly on purpose, then, becomes radical. A reclamation. A reminder that your body exists for you. That it doesn’t have to move in ways that please anyone else. You get to flail. You get to stomp. You get to wiggle your hips like you’re trying to detach them. Because sometimes that’s what healing looks like. Not perfect. Not poised. Just present.

Your Body Is Not a Performance Piece

As women, we’re taught early on to curate our physicality. Sit nicely. Don’t take up too much space. Cross your legs. Smile. We’re socialised into becoming little ballerinas cast in a performance we never auditioned for. And when that recital ends? We forget how to just be. We forget that movement isn’t about optics. It’s about feeling.

Dancing with wild abandon reminds you what your body is for. It’s not decoration. It’s not a silent servant. It’s not just something to squeeze into shapewear or hide under oversized jumpers. It is yours. A vessel of joy. A translator of your emotions. A home that you get to inhabit, even when you feel like a stranger in it.

When I dance badly, I come back to myself. I let the trauma trapped in my shoulders melt into movement. I roll my spine, not for technique, but because it feels right. I let my hair whip around like I’m in an 80s music video and I don’t care how stupid I look. Because for those few minutes, I am free. Not consumed by the gaze of others. Not a woman trying to shrink herself to be acceptable. Just a human being moving.

From Ritual to Resistance

Across the world, dance has always held sacred space. From the haka to belly dancing, from West African ceremonies to Indigenous corroborees, movement has always been tied to meaning. We danced to honour ancestors. To summon rain. To process grief. To bring communities together. These rituals weren’t about aesthetics. They were about connection. Embodiment. Transcendence.

But colonisation, capitalism and cultural whitewashing severed that connection for so many. Dance became reserved for studios and competitions. A commodified version of what once belonged to everyone. That loss is deep. It’s generational. And it shows up in the way so many of us feel awkward moving our bodies in public unless we’ve rehearsed it.

Reclaiming dance as something wild and personal, rather than structured and performative, is an act of rebellion. It says: I am allowed to take up space. I am allowed to feel. I am allowed to return to my body without asking for permission. Even if that means looking like I’m auditioning for interpretive dance theatre in the middle of my lounge room. Even if my nieces think I’m a bit weird. Especially then.

So Go On, Shake It

Every now and then, I find myself twirling through my flat like a woman possessed. I’ll do a dramatic spin into the kitchen, nearly knock over Lulu (who judges me deeply), and finish with a neat little curtsey. I am not doing it for anyone. There’s no choreography. Just movement. Just joy.

I still dance properly, of course. I still have the steps memorised. I can still cha cha with the best of them. But these days, I save the routines for when I want to do them, not when I feel I should. Because my body doesn’t need to earn the right to move. She doesn’t need to prove anything. She gets to exist. And she gets to feel good while doing it.

So dance badly on purpose. Be silly. Be sacred. Be a mess. Don’t wait for permission. Don’t wait until you’re drunk enough or alone enough or good enough. Your body is already enough. And she deserves to feel like home. Put the music on. Flail. Spin. Heal. Look ridiculous. That’s the whole point. Not to impress – just to feel like you’re alive again..

And to my nieces? I’m sorry for ruining your rhythm. But I hope you never forget how powerful it is to move like no one is watching. Especially when someone is.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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