In this first installment of Daydream Diaries, two dancers share what surfaced for them during the “daydream” portion of their Saturday classes:

8/15/2026

During Karl’s class at Good Move today, we laid on the floor and listened to “The Mystery of Love” by Sufjan (from that movie I never saw but I know it’s Timothee and Armie Hammer and there’s a peach thing).

Anyway, Good Move is in Williamsburg and right by the East River. It’s a really unique space because the studio has these lovely, big windows that get indirect sunlight. During Dance Church, the curtains are drawn so you’re kind of getting that sunlight, but only through transparent curtains, and honestly you’re distracted by the hip circles and lawn mowers anyway, so you’re not ever paying that much attention to the lighting. You’re only ever vaguely aware of how light or dark it is outside, which is perfect for a studio. This was a long ramble about the lighting at Good Move, but I’m trying to set the scene.

While we lay on the floor and we were just beginning to open our eyes and “wake up from our daydreams”, the sunlight suddenly dimmed enough that the room noticeably got darker. I literally thought someone turned the lights off in the studio, that’s how much darker the room became. The combination of the Sufjan song, Karl’s voice, and the dimmer sunlight was honestly just magic. It felt like we were experiencing a sunset even though it was 3 pm and we were just lying on this floor.

This is a weird thing to say- I don’t believe in god, but I was willing to suspend my atheism for like 28 seconds because that moment was just so perfect 😂😂

- Amery C (Brooklyn, NY)

8/15/2026

Today during Daydream, Camille Wiltz, the inimitable Austin teacher and emotional alchemist, chose to play Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell. Specifically, Joni’s re-record from the new millennium. (Here’s the perfect time for you to go listen to the 1969 original and then the re-record).

These two versions of this song straddle a century, and a lifetime of Joni’s own loves and heartbreaks and disappointments. Joni’s lyrics have delivered me from the toughest moments of my life, to bittersweet acceptance of the unknown. She has a prophetic understanding of intimacy, and even still recognizes the places where life continues to surprise her.

There was no way for me to contain my tears during Daydream when this song came on. I thought of all the surprises of my own life, the peaks and valleys I had yet to experience when I first heard this song in a movie, on the couch gripping my mom's hand, at the age of 15. I would not have guessed back then, that 15 years later I would be crying to this song in a blue-lit room, surrounded by a dance community I love, accepting the bad memories and the good ones as they came to my mind.

We do not know love and life, at all. There is always something lost, and something gained, there are always both sides.

- Eugenia Q (Austin, TX)

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Ayanna attends “Church” in Philly. They wrote this essay a year ago, after their first class:

A couple of weeks ago, my roommate convinced me to go to this thing called “Dance Church.” The way it was pitched, from a friend of a friend, was like this:

It’s a class that happens every Sunday, you move your body/dance for 75 minutes. It’s great for me because I used to be a dancer but as I’ve gotten older, that world has gotten farther away from me.

Immediately I heard “I used to be a dancer and this is for people who also used to be dancers.” Which I am not, nor have I ever been.

For me, dancing feels complicated. I feel the same way about it as I do about sports; in my head I’ve labeled both as “for other people.” People first start doing these activities when they’re kids, and then there is some mysterious age you turn when it is no longer socially acceptable to be a beginner at it. So if you don’t start when you’re 5 or 7 or 10, you’ll die without dancing or playing soccer.

As I’ve become an adult, I’ve gently been trying to confront these beliefs. Last spring, I started with swimming. Swimming was one of those sports that felt a little more accessible because, not only is it individual (no one has to rely on you), but I’ve also always loved being in the water. That being said, lap-swimming was still intimidating. There were unspoken rules and unfamiliar swimming forms. I had to buy a certain bathing suit, a swim cap, and goggles. I spent way too much time watching “how to swim” videos, reading Reddit threads, and looking over my local pool guidelines.

When I finally worked up the courage to go to the pool, it was 6 AM and the sun hadn’t come up yet. Pulling into the parking lot, there was a huge cloud of steam rising from the outdoor pool. When I finally got all my gear on and stood on the edge of a lane, I couldn’t see the other side of the pool because of all the steam. I’d have to swim into the abyss, trusting there’d be a wall at the 50-meter mark.

I swam for maybe 10 minutes this first day — and even that is a generous estimation — before promptly getting out. I was terrible. My form was off, I kept sinking, and I was incredibly out of breath within the first few strokes. I sat on a bench, drinking water and watching all the retirees swim laps. They were like machines, back and forth across the pool, over and over and over again. I couldn’t even make it there and back without stopping to catch my breath. I was completely out of my element.

Being a beginner is terrifying. When you’re an adult, it feels like you’re not allowed to be bad at things anymore. I have friends who are terrified to go to the gym and do anything other than walk on the treadmill. I have other friends who are scared to try painting or learning how to play an instrument.

For me, the worst part is knowing that other people are going to witness me being bad at something. My fear of being judged for being bad at something — especially in public —has kept me from trying a lot of things that I would probably really love.

So I kept going back to the pool. Things got better when I realized I didn’t have to suffer and go at 6 AM. Instead, I started going on my lunch break, when it was sunny and warm. The lanes were cut down to a manageable 25 yards instead of 50; I could easily see the other side of the pool. They usually blasted some classic radio hits from the 2000s while everyone swam — the vibes were great.

I still didn’t know what I was doing, but every time I left I felt a little more confident. I would notice something about my form that I could correct next time, or I’d look up different drills to try and get better.

Every time I went back I felt better than before. Within the third or fourth time I went, I realized I wasn’t anxious anymore. It felt good to be doing something with my body on a regular basis, but more than that, it felt good to try something new.

So anyways, back to Dance Church.

The concept of this class was very anxiety-inducing to me. Dancing has always made me self-conscious. I didn’t dance at concerts or school dances until I was maybe 16, when my boyfriend at the time essentially forced me to. That was one of the best things that came from that relationship — him showing me that it was okay to dance. After that, I started dancing at dances, clubs, and parties, and I finally felt a little more normal for it.

Last month, my roommate had just gone to her first Dance Church class and was trying to rally a group of us to go with her to the next one. She loved it, describing it as low-stakes and similar to somatic therapy. I told her I’d think about it, assuming I would end up not going. It wasn’t until literally everyone else who was invited said that they’d go that I got FOMO and decided to join.

In the class, us and a bunch of other people got up onto a big, low-to-the ground stage. There are no mirrors. During the class, there is no talking, but there is singing, clapping, stomping, etc. One person leads the class, but there is no “front.” Everyone generally faces toward the center of the stage, but not always. We do 75 minutes of continuous movement, with some parts cued by the instructor. Mostly, you do whatever feels good to you in the moment.

Dancing with a group of 20+ strangers without thinking about how I’m being perceived is something I never really thought I needed before a month ago. There’s different parts of it that feel amazing: Being in community with others, feeling like I’m allowed to take up space, and, overall, taking time to feel connected to my body and shake out any excess energy I’ve stored up from the previous week.

I’m someone who lives primarily in my head. If I’m in the zone, I can go hours without checking in on my body. I can be hot, cold, hungry, tired, etc. but not know it until I intentionally check in with myself. It’s something that’s gotten better over the years, but I still need to make an active effort to be embodied.

The first time I ever felt connected to my body was when I was 16 and I went to a yoga class. The euphoria I felt leaving that class is the same feeling I got leaving Dance Church—being completely embodied, getting reprieve from my head for even just a little bit.

There’s a quote I think about a lot from a video essay I’ve seen too many times:

“You don’t sing because you’re a singer, you sing because you’re a person.”

At the end of this class, where everyone is lying on the floor with their eyes shut, a version this quote rattled around inside of my brain. You don’t dance because you’re a dancer, you dance because you’re a person. That, and the mantra: You’re allowed to take up space. Regardless of ability or skill or experience. Because it’s not about any of that.

Read the full essay here.

Ayanna is a Philly-based writer and artist who loves slugs, board games, and moving their body in various ways. You can find them writing about life on their Substack, The Untangling, or books on their Substack, BOOKSLUG.

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Maggie attends “Church” in LA. Here’s an excerpt from her personal essay Dance Til You Feel Better:

The room is red like an apple, ready to be bitten. Joe is teaching, back after a month-long hiatus and people are giddy. It’s Saturday morning at Stomping Ground LA and dancers from across the city arrive to stretch and catch up pre-class. As Troye pounds overhead the room fills with the scents and sights of Los Angeles: fishnet shorts, neon windpants, warm air, and oranges. I sit alone and stretch, observing my community as we settle in for the experience that is Dance Church–an all-levels dance fitness class that works ten times harder than my Zoloft.

I took my first class virtually in April of 2020, when everyone in the world was seeking some form of connection outside the walls of their home, apartment, mind. Immediately hooked when the teacher said, “spread your ass cheeks to the sky” as a form of dance instruction, I spent the next hour-ish lawn-mowering my arms and clam-shelling my legs into oblivion alongside thousands of strangers in their living rooms. When class was over, I cried, amazed at the connection it had forged between me and my body and how moved I felt by the process.

Joe stands before us now on the risers, shimmering in the magenta house lights, explaining how class will go. He will be in the center of the room, leading, and we will fill in the space around him, mirroring his movements. Unlike other dance classes and choreography workshops, this one has no actual mirrors. Instead, we follow each other. It’s an exercise in feeling, seeing, and listening. The coordinations don’t feel intimidating or overly complicated because they’re not–they’re designed to make the dance experience feel inclusive, open, and accessible to all.

“Two fingers in the air, means go on a journey.” Joe’s starting to wrap up the pre-class spiel so I take a quick glance around the room to see who’s here. Erin, Stella, Scout, and Miranda–dancers I’ve come to recognize over the past few years from chats by the water fountain or spontaneous connections on and off the dance floor. A couple I’ve seen a few times before sways together in the corner, holding hands. A man in his seventies, adjusts the depth of his orange ear plugs and height of his socks. A mother and her teenage daughter stand shoulder-to-shoulder in matching sports bras, like identical twins from different decades. Two other Dance Church teachers–Adrian and Cody–stretch alongside each other, here to support Joe with check-in and to hype up the floor. Beyond the sweet and familiar beings I do know, there’s a good number I don’t, which is exciting.

Witnessing people take Dance Church for the first time is a reminder of what’s so magical about it: arrive in any mood, with any level of dance skill and leave feeling revived and reconnected to your self. I’ve shown up to class feeling every type of way–pissed at the day’s unfoldings, cranky and heavy with my period, exhausted from work and tired from existing, horrified by the day’s news, depressed about climate change, buoyed by kindnesses from strangers, in awe of life, in the middle of mourning, in the midst of elation, in the depths of despair, and in ever-evolving love. No matter how I feel at the start of class, by the end I am a calmer and more peaceful version of myself; a woman stripped of her ego and, for a precious fleeting moment, void of her nagging anxieties. Zoloft could never!

“This first song is to get settled into your body,” Joe says as he steps down off the risers and onto the floor. He presses play, turns up the volume full blast. It’s Selena Gomez’s “Love You Like A Love Song”. People cheer. A woman in a tie-dyed crop top and green biker shorts turns to me as the room starts to tilt. “It’s my first time,” she whispers, with some nervous excitement.

I smile reassuringly at her, remembering my first class and the way I felt afterward: alive, connected, present. Rare feelings to come across in this harsh world of ours, and ones worth preserving if you find them.

“Enjoy the ride,” I whisper back.

*

I skip into the room off-kilter and smiling. The camera and I are fast friends, my dad behind the lens capturing the performance for some distant relative who’ll never see it. Red leotard, red tutu, red flower crown, I’m a tiny and wild ballerina with more hellion spirit than poise and grace. I beam a grin at my parents and grandmother in the crowd, playing to my adoring fans. But quickly my smile fades and is replaced with a darker look. Turning away from the camera I look over at someone, something, and tightly fold my arms across my chest. I’m chagrined or self-conscious—clear from my hunched stance and frown. Maybe I was scolded, too busy hamming it up for the camera than doing the choreography. Maybe I saw a ghost. Whatever it was, I correct myself and shift back in line.

These seven seconds of my early childhood dance history are stored on my iPhone, blurred by time and the transfer from video cassette to DVD to mp4. But the story still comes through–the pixelated dots communicating an extraordinary amount about my sense of self at such a young age. Watching the clip also jogs my memory. I can see the space where we danced as young ballerinas, the honey-colored wood flooring that creaked in certain places when stepped on. The unforgiving blue carpet that felt like sandpaper and smelled like ashtrays in the hallway where we lined up our shoes. When recitals were held, our parents would gather in pews made from folding chairs, view finders pressed firmly to eye sockets.

Growing up in a small town in mid-coast Maine in the early 90s meant there wasn’t exactly an overflow of dance studios and classes to choose from. Ballet, tap, and jazz were the only options within an hour’s drive, and I took ballet except for one regretful season of tap. Starting at three years old, I danced wherever local teachers could find a location to house a studio: near a major US Navy shipyard. In an attic space above a home-run-daycare. In the side room of a Unitarian church. And in a back alley studio sandwiched between a popular Italian restaurant and our town’s best ice cream shack. That back alley studio was my favorite, and emerging from a class, sweaty and hungry, was a moment I cherished as a kid. Sugary tomato sauce, sage, yeast, and chocolate would fill the air, lifting me up like a tired balloon, taking me home to dinner where spaghetti was likely being served.

The majority of my core dance memories, however, are around my teachers: the gym coach who taught us how to salsa; the glittery tap teacher who barked orders but often danced alongside us, which I respected; and my longest-running ballet teacher who arguably made the biggest impression on me and my relationship with dance. I started dancing with Ms. B when I was around five and she remained my teacher until I quit ballet around thirteen. A stern and demanding teacher, her idea of ballet was less about storytelling conveyed through movement and more about looking like “pretty little girls” up on stage – a concept I found hard to relate to.

The more time I spent taking ballet with Ms. B, the further I drifted away from the vision I had of dance in my mind. At home, I watched movies like Dirty Dancing, Flashdance, and Center Stage, feeling connected to the powerful female characters who broke free from rigid societal constraints. Who danced in the ways they wanted to–dirty, fun, rebellious, deliberate, rude, and without giving a fuck. I wanted to be like Baby, Alex, and Jody, free and unabashed, not like the perfect little girls in tight sequined corsets, performing twirls onstage for a sea of camcorders.

Did I quit ballet after Ms. B told me I’d grown too tall, too prepubescent, too “not right” for the role? Possibly. Or had I pre-quit in my mind by the time she held me back after class to talk to me about my breasts, my hips, my thighs, and how those changes needed to be managed. Reverting back to this moment now, the only thing I can see clearly in my memory is the CD player. In my recollection, she can’t look me in the eye when she’s describing the perfect ballerina body and that I don’t have it; all she can do is stare at a stack of classical CDs.

We live our lives according to the narratives we tell ourselves. And the story I’ve told myself about my own dance history for the past twenty-two years was that I didn’t belong. That I wasn’t good enough. That I didn’t have the right kind of body to be a dancer. What I realize now–and it’s amazing it’s taken this long to figure out–is that I let someone else tell me what dance was supposed to look like and I just chose to believe it. My brain didn’t know–especially as a 13 year-old girl–how to distinguish between what’s real and what’s mine and what’s someone else’s pain.

I think now of my pre-teen self exiting the ballet studio for the last time, heavy with shame and self-hatred, giving up on dance. Knowing the journey that awaits this earlier, softer version of me, I reach out and stop her in her tracks before she gets to the parking lot where her mom is waiting in a warm car. I lean in close and tell her about a future where she is a dancer.

*

“Right arm!” Joe shouts from the center of the room as Ace of Base blares overhead. Moving in unison, we all raise our right arms up, like we’re punching the ceiling. Eight beats later, we’ve switched to the left. Then, it’s both arms and we’re turning around in circles, bouncing up and down like an all-inclusive cheer squad at a Nationals competition (shout out to Bring It On). Any stiffness my body felt upon arrival has dissolved into buoyant brute force. I’m going hard, probably too hard given my low back problems, but I can’t help myself. Watching 100+ strangers dance to “Blow the Whistle” and “Shake Your Groove Thing” is making me feel so full I’ve got to burn off some extra energy.

And it’s around this sixth or seventh song that the physical commitment of Dance Church becomes clear–we’re here to work, move, sweat, grunt, play, and to ring out the body and mind like a wet towel. My brain often chooses to shed anxieties first, dredging up things from the past week that might have made me feel worried (gun violence, work drama, politics, a weird exchange with a friend). Lunging down to the floor on my right side, feet holding me steady and brow dripping, I let those fears slide away. They puddle on the floor beside me and I mop them up with my sock.

Next up, I shush my ego and my shadow self, the parts of me that compare and contrast my life against the lives of others. The insecurities that fuel choices based on fears of what people might think of me. We all have these hard and stubborn bits. It’s good to recognize them, to know them, and then ask them to shut the fuck up–because you’re dancing right now. Right now, you’re too busy being an animal, a snot-monster, a sexy freak crawling on the floor to Madonna or Tiesto. You’re experiencing the rare process of your bones and muscles breaking down into stardust only to rebuild and reform into something new. Without the distraction of our phones, without the ability to talk and interrupt, the dance floor becomes a sacred space of healing and unlimited self-expression. What kinks will you work out today and how will you emerge different from when you arrived?

Ten songs in, and class has transitioned to the floor. We are seated in a position that upon first glance looks like a crab walk, but is really more of a sky hump. Joe leads and we follow, thrusting hips from floor to ceiling, heads back between shoulder blades and feeling the full force of this upward, collective movement. Someone yells out, encouraging others to whoop and make noise. I press my hips up and close my eyes, eyelids filled with images from my past, a history of dance I thought I had erased. Each memory floats to light and provides me with truths I can no longer shed: that I’ve always been a dancer. That dance is in my DNA. No matter how hard I try to tell myself otherwise, my body knows this fact and makes it clear to me whenever I start to move.

Read the full essay here.

Maggie Dodson is a creative director and writer living in Los Angeles with her husband, daughter, and dog. She is a recovering eldest daughter, amateur psychic, and former winner of “bad hair day” without even entering or competing.

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Dear friend,

I’ve had many “aha” moments during the Daydream portion of Dance Church, and I’m sure you have too. These epiphanies have ranged drastically, from deciding what I should make for dinner that night, to birthing an idea for a new creative project, to realizing that I owe someone an apology, to deciding that it’s time to leave a toxic job.

An “aha moment” that happened during class, back in March, has led to you reading this, right now.

I’ll explain.

I started attending “Church” in November of last year, as a recent transplant to Portland, OR. “It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for,” I wrote in my journal, the day after my first class. Sure, yes, I was looking for a way to regularly move my body that I would actually look forward to doing. And DC very much checked that box for me with its daytime-dance-club-vibes and meticulously crafted playlists. (Shoutout to the DC teachers for putting so much thought and effort into those!)

But what I was really looking for was a sense of home.

That first class was a return to a home I had been disconnected from: my body. Wiggling and stretching and pushing and jumping and playing and singing and crawling like that felt like spending time with an old friend. Because it was! My body is my oldest, dearest friend. And yours is yours.

That first class was also an introduction to a community that immediately felt like home. I believe that anyone who decides to not only try out Dance Church, but return, has the shared qualities of being open and down to clown.

And those people are very much my people.

I wished there was a way that I could know more about all of the dancers next to me. I wanted to know what happy hours they recommend. I wanted to read their writings and go to their performances. I wanted to know what came up for them during Daydream, and hold space for that, for them.

During that special, quiet, still portion of a Sunday class in March, the idea came to me to create a digital space where DC dancers — from any and every city — could do this. Where we could stay connected to each other after the last song ends.

This Substack publication, The Beat, was built for us to do that. (Huge shoutout and THANK YOU to Kate, the founder of DC, for letting me run with this idea.)

The Beat is our space to connect and share and learn and reflect and process and celebrate, together.

Welcome home.

Love,

Liz

Liz Magee is a Portland (OR) based sensitive person who writes all sorts of things down. She is the founding editor of The Beat, Dance Church’s Substack publication that you’re reading right now.

Illustration by Julia Johns.

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