I grew up in Texas, where country music isn’t just music—it’s the backdrop to everything. Backyard barbecues, Friday night drives, long summer days that stretched into even longer nights. And if you were lucky enough to grow up near Fort Worth, you knew that Billy Bob’s was more than just a honkytonk. It was the place. The place where boots scuffed the dance floor, where live music filled the air, where country legends sang songs that made you feel something deep in your bones.
I love country music. Always have. There’s just something about it—the way every song tells a story, the honesty, the raw emotion, the reminder that no matter what you’re going through, someone else has been there too. A good country song can lift you up, knock you down, and bring you right back home all in the span of three minutes.
And yet, for all the years I’ve spent loving this music, I have never—not once—been good at dancing to it. I mean, I want to be. I want to be that person who glides across the floor effortlessly, who knows the steps without even thinking, who looks like they were born knowing how to two-step. But the reality? I am tall, lanky, and about as coordinated as a baby deer on ice. My body doesn’t move the way I want it to, and my brain panics the second I try to string more than two steps together.
But here’s the thing—I’m done sitting on the sidelines. Growth doesn’t happen inside our comfort zones, and if I want to be the kind of person who throws themselves into life, then I have to start acting like it. Because according to the Yerkes-Dodson Law, a little bit of stress—just the right amount—actually helps us perform better. Not enough stress? We stay in our comfort zone, too relaxed to push ourselves. Too much? We freeze, overwhelmed and paralyzed. The sweet spot? That’s where the magic happens. That’s where we grow.
So tonight, I’m taking a line dancing class. I am willingly walking into a situation where I know I’ll be bad at something. Where I know I’ll be surrounded by people who are better than me. Where I know there’s a solid chance I’ll trip over my own feet.
And honestly? I’m excited. And terrified. But mostly excited. Because what’s the worst that can happen? I look ridiculous? I miss a step? I fall on my face? (All very possible, by the way.) But what’s the best that can happen? I learn something new. I push myself. I laugh. I grow. I remind myself that I don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it.
So tonight, I’ll step onto that dance floor. Maybe I’ll stumble, maybe I’ll struggle, maybe I’ll end up doing some weird interpretive version of what’s supposed to be a line dance. But I won’t be sitting this one out. Not anymore.
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