Open Range Dance Project

I grew up in a town so small you could blink and miss it. The kind of place where Friday nights meant gym lights, squeaky sneakers, and the same handful of faces in the bleachers every week. I played sports (volleyball, basketball, track) because that’s what you did. You showed up, you tried hard, and you hoped you’d be good enough to matter.

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Spoiler: I wasn’t.

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I sprinted, hurdled, pole-vaulted, and still somehow managed to trip over my own feet more times than I care to admit. I wasn’t terrible, but I wasn’t great either. Just barely below average if anything. The kind of athlete who worked hard enough to earn a pat on the back but never quite the spotlight. The sub when the star needed a breath. The backup.

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Performance was a different story. Band, choir, theatre... those were my safe zones. I could hold a note, remember my lines, and fake confidence under stage lights better than I could fake coordination on a basketball court. But even then, I figured performing was something that ended with high school. You graduate, you grow up, and you trade applause for spreadsheets.

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F*ck Dance

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So off I went to college, ready to chase something practical — business, maybe. Something that sounded stable, even if it was boring. I added a theatre minor for fun, because why not? I thought it’d be a nice creative outlet while I trudged toward a “real” career. Then came the elective requirement: one dance class.

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I scrolled through the list... ballet, jazz, modern, tap... all things that screamed “graceful people who’ve been doing this since birth.” None of them felt remotely like me. Then I saw Hip Hop I. It sounded less intimidating, maybe even a little rebellious. So, I signed up.

 

HUGE mistake.

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The teacher hated theatre kids. I was still recovering from a hip injury from my last track season. And I was awkward — painfully, visibly awkward. Every move felt wrong, every beat late. I ended the semester with a D, and I fought tooth and nail for that grade calling my mom crying so many times I lost count over this one class my very first semester in college. Pardon my language, but at that point in my life...? Absolutely. Indubitably. Unmistakably. F*ck dance.

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Baby Steps

 

I dropped out not long after. Life happened (as it tends to do.) I went to a small community college, got a two-year business management degree, studied fashion for a bit (meh), got married, and somehow ended up back in Grand Junction at CMU finishing my business degree. That’s when a friend told me about something called line dancing at a little bar across the street from campus known as Mama Rees. 

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“Come dance with us!” they said.

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“Dancing? No. Absolutely not,” I said. Months went by. They kept inviting me. I kept saying no. Then one day, they pulled the birthday card. "Come for my birthday!”

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Fine. Ugh. Whatever.

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I showed up.

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And I fell in love.

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Not the graceful, movie-montage kind of love. More like the messy, sweaty, “I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m smiling anyway” kind of love. The people were kind. The music was the soundtrack of my childhood filled with country songs that felt like home. And for the first time in years, I was having fun.

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Fun.

Dance.

Two words I never swore would never belong in the same sentence. 

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That first lesson was to “I See Country” by Ian Munsick. I’ll never forget it... the rhythm, the laughter, the way everyone cheered when we all finally got the steps right. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being there.

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Come Dance With Me

 

It’s been almost two years since that night, and somehow dance has become the heartbeat of my life. I teach now — line dance, two-step, cha-cha, East Coast swing, West Coast swing, country swing, nightclub, waltz… and the list keeps growing.

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It’s funny to think about how far I’ve come from that kid who couldn’t vault straight or keep rhythm in Hip Hop I. Dance found me when I wasn’t looking for it. When I’d already decided it wasn’t for me. And it didn’t care that I wasn’t good. It just asked me to show up. That’s the thing about country dance is that it’s not about perfection. It’s about connection. You don’t need a partner, fancy shoes, or years of training. You just need a willingness to try, to laugh, to move. I’ve met people who’ve been dancing for decades and people who’ve never taken a step before. I’ve watched shy newcomers turn into confident regulars. I’ve seen friendships form, couples meet, and entire rooms light up when the right song plays.

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And somewhere in all that, I found myself too. Losing my mom and dropping out. Trying a marriage that ultimately failed. And now, currently, fighting my way through the sticky strings of divorce. Dance became my therapy, my community, my creative outlet. It gave me a way to perform again. Not for applause, but for joy. It reminded me that movement doesn’t have to be graceful to be meaningful. It just has to be real.

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Now, when I teach, I think about that first version of me. The one who said “F*ck dance.” The one who thought she’d never belong in that world. I teach for her. For the people who think they’re too clumsy, too late, too old, too busy, too whatever. Because if I can fall in love with dance after all that, anyone can. There are still nights when I’m exhausted with life. Juggling school, work, and teaching... and I wonder how I got here. But then I step onto the floor, the music starts, and everything else fades. My spoon jar starts filling back up if you're familiar with that terminology.

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I see the smiles, the laughter, the way people loosen up after a long week. I see the same spark that caught me off guard that first night at Mama Rees and I think, yeah… this is absolutely where I’m meant to be. I may never be the best dancer in the room. I may still trip over my own feet sometimes. But I’ve learned that being “good” isn’t the point. The point is showing up as you are. Tired, busy, imperfect... And letting yourself move anyway.

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So here I am, two years later, teaching the very thing I once swore off. Building a community that feels like family. Watching people fall in love with dance the same way I did — one step, one laugh, and one song at a time. If you’d told me back in that Hip Hop I class that someday I’d be teaching country swing and waltz, I would’ve laughed you out of the room... But life’s funny like that. Sometimes the things you swear you’ll never do end up being the things that save you.