Late last year, life was a whirlwind. I was drowning in work – leading a massive government project on top of handling my usual accounts. The stress was so intense that I got shingles for the second time that year. 

But even when things got hectic, I wasn’t willing to give up dancing. I continued with my weekly classes and practice sessions. I was preparing for my first performance at Singapore’s annual Chingay parade — a routine that included riskier air steps than I’d ever done before. On top of that, I’d just been recruited into two different dance crews.

And still, I was determined to have a social life. I carved out time to hang out with friends, and even dedicated one night a week to go on dates. 

Honestly, I loved it. That season of my life brought so much joy and pride. I felt like I was growing in every direction. But to juggle everything, I had to make compromises — and sleep was the first to go. I was running on empty, teetering on the edge of burnout. 

Still, I’m great under pressure. So I kept going. Kept performing. Kept the burnout at bay. Until… something in me flipped.

Some friends were heading to Korea to compete, and our dance school hosted a mock competition to help them prepare. Since it was just a practice session and I was mainly there to support, I turned up unprepared — bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived. 

Bad timing. The turnout was small, and I ended up being the most junior dancer there. I was up against a friend who used to be my teacher, a street dancer with battle experience, and another friend who had a background in ballet and years of lindy hop under her belt.

I got absolutely wrecked. 

I did my best, but I was clearly outmatched. I smiled through the critiques — they were fair and constructive — but inside, I was falling apart. I felt my eyes well up. Something in me snapped. 

Logically, I knew I couldn’t compare myself to them. I knew I should take the feedback in stride and use it to grow. I did my best to process everything, and shared the experience with my close friends, Kai and Yeeching, for comfort. 

I thought I’d bounced back. 

But the following week, I started having trouble breathing — like I could never get enough air in my lungs, no matter how deep I inhaled. My heart would race. I couldn’t sit still. I’d pace around the room, hug myself, and talk myself down like I was an inconsolable five-year-old. 

It happened without warning. At work, while racing a deadline. At home, trying to read. And even — heartbreakingly — while dancing. 

One of the new dance crews I’d joined focused on solo jazz, and our early sessions were all about jamming and improvising. I’ve always struggled with improvisation — it’s like speaking a new language when your vocabulary is still limited. You can survive basic conversation, but a compelling speech? Not quite.

Week after week, I’d dread practice. Sometimes, the thought of it alone would trigger my anxiety. 

That’s when I began to really reflect on my relationship with dance.

This was supposed to be my joy. My passion. My release. So how had it become the very thing that triggered my anxiety?

Of course, it didn’t happen in isolation. I was under immense pressure in every area of life. I had no mental bandwidth left to process, let alone progress. I also tend to have high expectations of myself. I like to be in control, to appear in control. That doesn’t mix well with the vulnerability of being a beginner.

So how did I turn things around?

I reframed my perspective

I reminded myself that everyone has a different starting point. I only started learning lindy hop two years ago — in my 30s, with a high-load, full-time job. The dancers I was comparing myself to had been training longer, more frequently, or even professionally.

So I had two options: sacrifice sleep, work, and my social life to train harder, or do the best I could within my current circumstances — and be patient with my progress.

I chose curiosity over judgment

I realised I was applying a value I often extend to others — curiosity — to everyone except myself.

The more I learned, the more I got stuck in my head: Is my frame right? Am I using the right muscle? Am I frustrating my partner? Even in social dances, I couldn’t stop over-analysing.

Technique is important, of course. But dance is also about play. Joy. Presence.
So I shifted my mindset. I stopped treating every session as a test I had to ace. I started seeing it as an experiment. I gave myself permission to be messy. To try, to fail, to feel. To take feedback as information, not as judgment on my worth.

I got ruthless with priorities 

At one point, I was dancing six days a week. Monday: class and socials. Tuesday: practice with Kai and Yeeching. Wednesday: Chingay rehearsals. Thursday: solo jazz crew training. Saturday: performance crew (air steps!!!). Sunday: Blues class. 

It was a lot.

With encouragement from friends, I took a break from Tuesday practices and paused non-essential activities like climbing. I also scaled back my solo jazz commitment to once every two weeks.

That gave me breathing room — until Chingay and blues class were done, and I could truly rest.

And when that time came, I forced myself to not fill the empty space. I resisted the urge to say yes to everything.

I focused on what I truly needed 

I asked myself: What do I really want right now?

The answer? To improve the quality of my solo jazz movement.

How could I handle improv or competition if my body wasn’t even fluent in the basics?

So, I said no to new performance invites and extended the pause on Tuesday group practices. Instead, I dedicated that day to solo practice — just me, a rented studio, a mirror, and 1-2 steps or a short routine to work on for a whole month. I’d record myself, take notes, review. Repeat.

You’d think it’d be boring.

But I loved it. I loved experimenting with my body, not caring how I looked, just feeling things click into place. Seeing my lines sharpen and rhythm deepen over time brought me so much joy.

Eventually, my anxiety episodes stopped.

And today? I have a much healthier relationship with dance.

I still push myself, but I’m much kinder now. Feedback doesn’t spiral me into self-doubt. Mistakes don’t paralyse me. I still get nervous — especially before performances — but more than anything, I feel joy.

And the best sign of that?

Last Thursday, I performed a new routine packed with tricky air steps. I completely botched the last one. It looked horrendous. A few audience members later told me they were scared for my life. 

Yes, I was disappointed. But — surprisingly — I didn’t dwell. I didn’t beat myself up. I still enjoyed the rest of the night, still danced with my friends, still had fun.

When I watched the video, I could laugh at myself. I could name what went wrong — miscounting the previous step, rushing the prep, needing more stamina — and make plans to fix it.

No spirals. No denial. Just growth.

I still have a long way to go.

But for once, that doesn’t overwhelm me. It excites me.

I can’t wait to see how I’ll continue to grow — as a dancer, and as Marsha.

Has your passion ever turned into a source of anxiety? How did you overcome it?

Credits:

Images by zhugher, Broesis, dimitrisvetsikas1969, StockSnap, adege, Matt Moloney