Who Danced Even When the World Felt Heavy

You didn’t know it then, but every step you took—barefoot on the cold tile, moving to the beat of a song only you could hear—was a kind of protest. A declaration. You were saying: “I’m still here.” Even when the noise around you tried to drown out your joy, your feet, your hips, your smile—they spoke louder.

You danced before you understood the weight you were carrying. Before you could name the silence that surrounded certain things. Before you had words for injustice, trauma, or pain. But your body knew. It knew how to release, how to reclaim space. How to feel free, even if only for three minutes and twenty seconds.

I want you to know that joy isn’t naïve. It’s brave. And yours was the kind of joy that sparked healing—for yourself, for those who watched, even if they never said so.

Today, you still dance. But now, you know that music isn’t just escape—it’s legacy. It’s therapy. It’s activism. And you, Ndzivalelo, are proof that joy can coexist with truth. That movement can be medicine. That a girl from Muchipisi village, who once danced alone, would grow to help others feel seen.

Keep dancing, little one. The world doesn’t get lighter on its own. But you—you are the kind of light it needs.

With fierce love, Your future self

By Ndzivalelo Pam Rikhostso