To me, dance isn’t just something I do, it’s who I am. It’s the space where I can be my truest self. Something in me always knew I would be a dancer. In PreK, the class had a chance to pick different items out of a box. I did not pick the firefighter’s helmet or the police badge. I picked and wore the purple tutu. Dance is an alter ego for me. It allows me to express emotions I normally keep hidden. It frees me from the stereotypes of being a professional athlete. Dance gives me something solid to hold on to. It reconfirms my commitment to discipline, resilience, and confidence. It introduced me to a community of people who believe in me, who see me not just for what I do but for who I am. I’ve had the honor of performing on big stages, working with amazing choreographers, and winning awards—but the biggest win has been learning to own my space unapologetically, which America does not always allow me to do safely. Dance is a safe space. Not only do I have to overcome the color barrier, I have to push past and ignore the gender barrier as well. As a young Black male in dance, I’ve had to stand strong in spaces where I often felt unseen or misunderstood. In some dance environments, I was one of the only dancer of color, and in others, I was the only male, sometimes both. That combination made me feel like I had to constantly prove that I belonged, that I was talented enough, and that I deserved the same respect and opportunities as everyone else. I’ve had people look surprised when I told them I train in ballet, or when I showed up at competitions ready to perform contemporary solos, they were expecting hip-hop which I also love. However, I didn’t let those narrow ideas define me or limit what I could become. I chose to embrace all parts of my identity, my culture and my strength and my passion for a form of expression that is often seen as feminine. I realized early on that real strength is in vulnerability, which means showing up authentically, no matter who’s watching. Recently, I've become comfortable looking directly into the camera, dancing louder and bolder and reveling in my masculinity. Breaking through both race and gender stereotypes still remains one of the biggest challenges on my journey. I want to show other young men, especially men of color, that it’s okay to love dance. It’s okay to be different from the traditional athlete. You can be powerful and graceful, athletic and expressive. You can break the mold and still be respected and stay true to your masculinity if you so choose. Being a dancer of color means I carry a legacy of strength, rhythm, and creativity. I know my ancestors used movement to celebrate, to grieve, to resist. I carry that history every time I step on stage. My body tells the only stories I know of from an ancestry I cannot trace. So when you ask what dance means to me—it means survival. It means joy. It means representation. It means breaking barriers and rewriting the narrative of who belongs in the world of dance where most of the dance styles were created by people of color! No matter where this journey takes me, I’ll keep dancing not just to be seen, but to be heard because that is what I am called to.