Hey, it’s me, Heather!

On Friday and Saturday nights in college, I basically lived on the dance floor. I’d spend my days working or writing, and my nights out dancing. As much as I had my nose in a book, it was in nightclubs that I learned how to read a room, feel the music in my bones, and ride the energy of a crowd.

Before that, though, I grew up in a pretty noisy house. My dad was a musician, and as a kid I didn’t love the constant sound of practice, rehearsals, all night jam sessions. I’d often be in my room, escaping inside of a story. I didn’t realize then how deeply all that sound was embedding itself in me, how much it was training my ear to notice rhythm, phrasing, and the emotional power of songs.



I got that English degree mostly because I loved reading, not because I knew what I was “going to do” with it. I was working, studying, traveling when I could, and writing a lot, but there was no five‑year plan. I literally just learned that concept. I kind of always knew that I was meant to be closer to art, people, and feeling than to rows of desks or lines on a page.

Somewhere in the middle of college, I signed up for a raqs sharqi (belly dance) class at Portland State for “physical education.” My teacher was a brilliant dancer but unimpressed with this lot of 20 year old girls who didn’t know their rights from their lefts. She was unlike any woman I had seen. She wore sweatpants, a white tank top, and did not shave much (at least not regularly, and definitely not for us). She simply wasn’t performing for anyone’s gaze. But at the end of every class, when she danced, she transformed into a goddess. Her movement was so exact yet full of abandon. I was enchanted.

There were a few classes where another dancer came and played the drum, and something in me woke up. The music and movement suddenly made perfect sense together. I walked out of those classes with my senses piqued. I continued studying with other dancers in town and my obsession grew.

I didn’t fully understand it then, but the dance studios full of women, the vibration of the drum, and all those late nights on sticky dance floors were the beginning of everything.

A few years later, I moved to Japan to teach English, and the “side” life I’d been living as a dancer quickly stepped into the spotlight. I had felt for a long time that I would dance professionally in Japan—I didn’t know how, I just knew—and once I arrived, it started to unfold. My teacher there encouraged me to perform in her shows, then I became the house dancer in a Turkish restaurant, worked with a live band, collaborated with other dancers, and learned fast that the only way to become a performer is to perform…a lot.

Those years weren’t just about stage time though, they were also how I processed my life. I danced through loneliness, culture shock, joy, exhaustion, love, heartbreak, and uncertainty. Dance became my moving journal. Whether it was in a show or in my tiny Tokyo bedroom, dance was a place to feel what was true that day and let it leave its marks on my muscles.

Soon, this “just for fun” dance became my whole world. In Tokyo, I studied with visiting teachers whenever I could, integrating parts of their style into what I’d already learned. Eventually, I returned to Portland when I was pregnant and had my child here, carrying all those years of late‑night shows and rehearsals back with me.

When I became a mother, dance became my haven. It was where I went to remember myself inside the overwhelm of parenting. It was a place to metabolize my feelings, learn about this newly changed body, and stay in relationship with my life rather than escape it.

I slowly found my way into teaching again, but I also wanted to keep learning. To do so, I began hosting out‑of‑town dancers that I admired, bringing their expertise to our local community. Around the same time, another huge chapter opened when I met my partner, David. I became the main dancer in his band, Ritim Egzotik, performing with them for thirteen years. Dancing to live music that often, in such close collaboration, changed how I move. I learned to soften my body to listen, respond without judgement, and improvise inside songs we’d played a hundred times.

Another turning point came when Rachel Brice invited me to teach on her online platform, Datura Online. What started as a few workshops turned into hundreds of hours of instruction over more than a decade, giving dancers around the world a way to drop into class from their living rooms.

Now, my work focuses on helping dancers build a deep, honest relationship with music. I love to see dancers going beyond memorizing steps or thinking about what they “should” be doing. Putting aside their fears and coming into a real conversation with the song. In my classes, you’ll find clear technique, somatic awareness, and room to drop in and play.