I want to be in a group of people who also want to dance in a line. I have found those spaces through the various classes I teach and the connections I continue to make.

And yet…

Dancing in a line is filled with viral moments, conversations about who the “experts” are, and questions about who owns what. From social media posts to in-person conversations and online discourse, this simple act of dancing in a line has become challenging.

Dancing in a line over the past few years, even though I have been doing hustles and line dancing my entire life, has been my healing space. It has allowed me to enjoy and love dancing again.

This year alone, I have lost so many loved ones. Dance, being in community with the people in my classes, and attending other social events have helped me move through my grief in ways that words simply cannot.

I have to give love to the Line Dance community in the DMV. Big ups to DR Soul and Dancing Diva April for getting me through things they had no clue I was dealing with. And I can’t help but mention Curtis Goode (What’d Up Doe), who confirmed some things for me all the way in Barcelona.

Ok, back to the writing at hand.

I have been involved in so many dance communities, and for some reason, the Soul Line Dance community has been the thing I have been searching for.

The joy that people feel and share on the floor. The invitation to learn and participate in dance, no matter your level. The way dances and information are shared with one another. These things go far beyond what I have experienced in many other dance spaces.

It was, and still is, what my heart needs.

Now, with all the beauty I have found in Soul Line Dancing, I cannot help but feel hesitant about stepping further into the community.

I am on the outside looking in, and I see so many things happening on the inside that do not feel good to me. These are some of the same things that moved me away from contemporary dance, street dance, and club spaces.

And I do not want to run away again.

I also do not want to do this in a bubble.

But the way I am looking in gives me pause.

Photo: Taken by me at our First Sunday Soul line Dance Social in Renton, WA

How does one enter a predominantly straight Black community and have their Queerness respected?

How does one move in a way that honors how they want to move their hips, chest, and body? How do we allow people to accent their dancing in ways that feel good to them rather than expecting them to fit into boxes of masculinity and femininity?

How do those who have been line dancing for years make space for other thoughts, ideas, and expressions to enter the room while still holding on to the core of what brought us there in the first place?

What does it look like to educate people about pronouns, gender expression, and identities that exist outside of the Black gender binary? How do those conversations become part of the culture of the space rather than something we avoid?

What does it look like to protect the beauty of what Black people have created without handing another part of our culture over to non-Black people?

And this does not mean I do not want non-Black people in these spaces. I absolutely believe there is room for people to participate, learn, and be in community. I just do not want another cultural practice that Black people created to become something we are priced out of or have other people telling us how to do the thing.

What does it mean for men to release their toxic masculinity in these spaces? And what does it mean for women to also release the ways they participate in and uphold that same toxic masculinity?

What does it mean for the Soul Line Dance community to make room for growth and integration with Trailriders rather than pushing them out?

What does it mean to live in the same city, support one another, and still have our own things going on?

There is room for more than just one.

Anyway, I have more questions than answers.

What I do know is that I have this strong need to dance and be surrounded by Black faces looking at me with smiles and peace.

I want to be on the dance floor, look to my left, and understand that the person next to me is dancing for their life. And it is not my place to judge them, quiet their voice, or tell them how their joy should look.

What does it mean to dance next to a Black man who is straight, moving his hips and chest without a care in the world about whether someone thinks he is anything other than a beautiful dancer?

What does it mean to create spaces where we do not have to explain, defend, or apologize for how our bodies choose to move?

What does it mean to allow the dance to be the thing that connects us without ignoring the differences that make us who we are?

I do not have all the answers. I am not even sure I am asking all the right questions.

But I know what dancing in a line has given me. I know how it has helped me find joy again. I know how it has held me through grief, loss, and moments when I did not know how to hold myself.

And I do not want to lose that.

I want to keep learning, sharing, questioning, and being in community. I want us to make room for one another without losing the cultural foundation that makes Soul Line Dance so beautiful.

I want to be able to show up as my full self and offer that same freedom to the person dancing next to me.

So I am left with one more question.

What does it mean to truly open up and welcome space for people like me who just want to dance in a line?

Finding me,

dani tirrell

I was shaving, and all I could think about was being with him during his last full week on this earth.

Sadness or grief did not enter my mind or spirit. Instead, there was gratitude. There was a sense of loss, but nothing that would bring me down or leave me in despair. I was grateful that I had the opportunity to be with him. Grateful that I could give my stepmother and sisters a few days of release from the responsibility of caring for him.

I got to hear his voice.

I got to touch him.

I got to watch him sleep, watch him fight, and eventually watch him release.

I got to kiss his forehead.

And I got to cut up his hamburger.

Of all the memories I carry from that week, him asking me to cut up his burger will remain one of the most important.

As I write this, tears are flowing. Again, not necessarily from sadness, but from the depths of love and the depths of heartbreak that made up our relationship.

But this is not about all of that.

This is about a hamburger.

My father cooked our food. He fed us. He cut up our food when we were too young to do it ourselves. He made sure we ate.

And in the final days of his life, I got to do that for him.

I got to cut up his burger.

An act that may not mean much to many people, but one that means the world to me.

It was an act of seeing a man ask his child for something. It was an act of service that I was blessed and honored to offer. It was a moment of him asking for care, something that, as a person, he did not always know how to receive well.

There was no grand gesture. No profound conversation. No attempt to repair every complicated part of our relationship.

There was simply a father asking his child to cut up his food.

And a child doing it.

As our family continues to navigate a world where both my father and mother are no longer physically here, I find myself holding on to the only gift that mattered in that moment.

I got to cut up his burger.

My father was not always an easy man to get along with. Most parents aren’t. He was ours. He was the best parts of us and some of the most troubling parts of us. He carried things that shaped us, things that challenged us, and things that we are probably still trying to understand.

And in the end, for me at least, because I cannot speak for my siblings, I believe we found a bit of peace with each other.

Not through some grand declaration of love or forgiveness, but through the simple act of caring for one another.

It was not easy watching him live his final week. It was not easy seeing the man who once cared for us needing care himself. But it was necessary for me to be there.

I want to be clear that this does not take away from what my stepmother, sisters, or brother witnessed, carried, or sacrificed. Their experiences are theirs to tell. This is simply me remembering and sitting with one of the last moments of physical love my father and I could muster for each other.

And yes, he fussed at me.

And yes, I fussed right back.

I am THAT child.

Even when he was well, I would fuss at him, and more often than not, there was very little pushback. I think he knew who he was dealing with.

But underneath all that fussing was love. Complicated love. Sometimes frustrating love. Love that did not always know how to show up in the ways we needed it to.

But love nonetheless.

And perhaps cutting up that burger was one of the clearest ways we knew how to express it.

Lately, I have found myself asking God, my ancestors, and the world a lot of questions.

Why isn’t this happening?

Why am I still waiting?

Why does being an artist have to feel so difficult?

Why am I working so hard to create, build, and offer something to the world, only to feel as though I am constantly waiting for someone or something to say yes?

I have been frustrated with my life as an artist. Frustrated with the systems that determine whose work matters, whose stories deserve resources, and whose labor is worthy of support.

And maybe this memory came to me this morning as a reminder.

Maybe I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

Maybe, just maybe, I am cutting up burgers more than I realize.

We often want the grand meal with all the fixings. We want to be in the kitchen proving that we can create the most exquisite meal anyone has ever tasted.

We want people to recognize our gifts, celebrate our talents, and acknowledge all the time, labor, and love that went into preparing what we have placed before them.

We want the beautiful table setting.

We want the applause.

We want someone to tell us that what we have created is worthy.

And there is nothing wrong with wanting those things.

But what happens when all that is being asked of us is to cut up the burger?

What happens when the work is not about creating the grandest meal, but making sure someone can eat?

What happens when our purpose is not found in the applause, the grants, the commissions, the titles, or the recognition, but in the small and mighty acts of service we offer one another?

Perhaps I have been so focused on trying to prepare the grand meal that I have overlooked the many burgers I have already cut up.

The people I have taught.

The artists I have supported.

The spaces I have helped create.

The conversations I have held.

The people I have sat with, listened to, challenged, and loved.

The moments when simply being present was enough.

Maybe those moments are not separate from my work.

Maybe they ARE the work.

I am not suggesting that we should stop dreaming big, stop demanding resources, or stop expecting our labor to be valued. I still want the grand meal. I still want the resources to create the work I dream of creating. I still want to be compensated for the years of labor, knowledge, and experience I bring into a room.

But perhaps I need to remember that the grand meal is not the only thing that can nourish us.

Sometimes it is a hamburger.

Sometimes it is someone asking for help.

Sometimes it is being willing to offer that help without needing the moment to become anything more than what it is.

I do not know if this memory came to me as a message from my father, my ancestors, God, or simply my own spirit reminding me of something I needed to remember.

I don’t need to know.

What I do know is that I was given a gift during the final week of my father’s life.

I got to care for him in a way that he once cared for me.

I got to offer him something simple, something necessary, something filled with love.

I got to cut up his burger.

And perhaps, as I continue searching for myself, my purpose, and my place in this world, I need to spend a little less time worrying about whether I am preparing the grandest meal.

Maybe I need to pay more attention to who is sitting at the table.

Who needs to be fed.

Who needs care.

And who might simply need someone to cut up their burger.

Because sometimes the smallest bites carry the greatest amount of love.

As always, searching for me,

dani tirrell

In the past, news like this would have devastated me. I would have questioned my talent, my ability to create meaningful dance and theater, and whether the stories I want to tell—as a Black, Queer, Trans Spectrum person living in the United States—were worthy of being seen.

But this time was different.

One rejection disappointed me. The other one? I read the “we regret to inform you” email and thought: Oh well.

And that surprised me.

I have been thinking a lot about what it means to create art right now—with little financial or institutional support. What does it mean to make dance in a city where whiteness is still so often centered in contemporary dance? Do I give up? Do I move in another direction? Do I keep waiting for someone to give me a yes?

Or do I create my own yes?

For a long time, fear and self-doubt had too much say in how I moved. I worried about what people would think. I worried about whether institutions would understand the work. I worried about whether someone would fund it.

Something is shifting.

For the first time in a long time, I am creating a full work centered on a solo for myself. I am in a different body. I am older. I am not particularly fond of performing. And this new work is asking me to be present and vulnerable in ways that scare me to my core.

It is also asking to be born whether the money arrives or not.

At the same time, I have been thinking deeply about The Congregation.

The Congregation started because I needed something better than calling a group of incredible artists “dani’s dancers.” Yuck.

Over the years, we have created some incredible work together, supported by grants, donations, partnerships, and community. I have generally created a new work for The Congregation every two or three years.

But lately, a question keeps pulling at me:

Why is Seattle still missing a Black-led contemporary dance company with an ongoing season?

We have incredible Black dancers and choreographers. We have artists making powerful work. But I keep imagining something more sustained: a home for Black dance artists to train, create, perform, experiment, gather, and tell our stories year after year.

I have watched other dance companies and organizations receive grants, major gifts, donor support, and the resources to build seasons. I will admit it: sometimes I have been jealous. Sometimes I have been angry.

And then I started asking a different question:

What if we built what I have been waiting to see?

So, over the next several months, I will be working toward a reintroduction of The Congregation—not simply as a group that gathers when I am making a new work, but as a Black-led dance ensemble working toward a season or half-season of performances, classes, gatherings, and community experiences.

Our work will continue to carry our signature mix of Black social dance, improvisation, jazz, and movement inspired by modern dance. We will teach Black Social Dance practices. We will create performances and events that hold the vastness of Black American dance experiences.

And we will continue centering Black life.

I want The Congregation to be a space where Black, BBAI+, and Queer dance artists can create and be supported—not because other people are unwelcome, but because these artists remain underrepresented in so many of our dance spaces.

There is a lot I have to learn.

The coming months will include researching what it means to become a 501(c)(3), becoming more financially intelligent, building a small but mighty team, strengthening our fiscal and organizational structure, finding rehearsal space, identifying performance homes throughout the greater Seattle area, and imagining what sustainability actually looks like.

And yes, I will be asking for money.

Not just money for one project.

Not just money to get us through one performance.

I want to begin building ongoing support that allows us to pay artists, rehearse, teach, produce work, gather community, and build something that can live beyond one grant cycle.

That scares me.

I don’t know exactly what this will become. I don’t know if I have the capacity to hold everything I am imagining.

But I know this:

I am tired of waiting for someone else to give us a yes.

I am tired of waiting for permission to create the spaces I know our community deserves.

So maybe this next chapter is not about waiting for our yes.

Maybe this is us becoming the yes.

In the coming months, you will hear more about the future of The Congregation, ways to support us through our fiscal sponsor, upcoming work, classes, gatherings, and opportunities to be part of what we are building.

If you are reading this and already thinking, dani, where can I send some money?—reach out. I will happily connect you with our fiscal sponsor.

And whether you support The Congregation or another artist you love, please keep showing up for artists. Buy the ticket. Purchase the music. Take the class. Make the donation. Volunteer. Share the work. Bring somebody with you.

The future we want will not appear because somebody finally gives us permission.

We have to build it.

More soon.

With love,

dani tirrell &
The Congregation

There are times when I can mask it well, and there are other times when it is all through my spirit.

I believe some parts of my depression come from my mother. I am not blaming her. I recognize that she moved with forms of depression for most of her life, without any real diagnosis or language for what she may have been experiencing.

Part of my depression is formed by the field I am in—dance. Part of it is formed through social media. But much of my depression is also formed by me: what I choose to ignore, what I choose to hold onto, and what I choose to take in.

Being Black, queer, on the spectrum of trans identity, fat, and with little social capital is a hard pill to swallow in a country that thrives on wealth, power, beauty, status, and stepping on others to get ahead.

We no longer use our accomplishments simply as reasons to celebrate. We use them as evidence of how worthy we are.

Social media is no longer just a place for connection. It has become a place where we mask who we really are while seeking the love and support of people who might drop us, unfollow us, or cancel us if we sneeze wrong.

Beauty is still a marker designed by the white gaze, and somehow, we are all intoxicated by it.

Fat means you are unhealthy. Fat means you have neglected yourself. Fat means you should be trying to become something else.

There are therapists. There are self-help books. There are self-care practices, tools, retreats, affirmations, and all kinds of language for healing.

But does any of it really get to the core of the issue?

I own the parts of my depression that I have fed and cradled.

And I get so mad because even when I think I am doing all the “right” things, I am still not on the list.

But I am not asking to be on the list anymore.

I am asking why the list exists.

Why do I—why do we—continue trying to live by standards we did not create? Why do we work so hard to exist within systems, spaces, and expectations that cannot even live up to what they demand from us?

My depression is connected to the amount of physical, mental, and emotional loss around me.

My depression is connected to me not fully embracing the beauty that I have and sitting in it without apology.

My depression is connected to people not believing me when I say, “That is not right.”

It is connected to being told, directly or indirectly, that I am too loud, too Black, too much for the masses.

And I wonder about our collective depression too.

How much of it is connected to all of us constantly telling each other what morally correct thing we should or should not do in order to be a “better” person?

Better according to WHO?

We are so busy creating unrealistic standards for other people that we miss our own shortcomings.

Do not say this word.

Do not listen to this song.

Do not use AI.

Do not wear this.

Do not watch that.

Do not support them.

Do not make the wrong mistake.

So many rules. So many opportunities to convict one another. So many expectations keeping us in a chokehold instead of helping us live our most juicy, healthy, complicated lives.

What would happen if we stopped trying to convict people—and ourselves—and started having more open, loving, difficult, honest conversations?

This year has tested my depression in ways I did not think were possible.

I have thought about every possible thing I could do to fight against it, move through it, rise above it, or live alongside it.

I pray to God.

I talk to my ancestors.

I start therapy again.

I dance.

I talk with friends.

I laugh.

I keep moving.

And I am still here, in depression.

Maybe that is something I need to say without trying to fix the sentence.

I am still here, in depression.

As always, I am not looking for unsolicited support. I am not sharing this because I need someone to save me or tell me what I should do next. I want to open conversations and create spaces where we do not have to live alone in the hard parts.

I am not trying to tell people how to live.

I just want to live more openly with myself and with others.

Maybe that openness is part of what I need to move further along in my healing journey.

I know that, for me, moving away from social media is part of it.

I know that, for me, it is more prayer and more conversations with my ancestors and God.

I know that, for me, it is laughter.

It is more line dancing.

It is surrounding myself with people who want to care for one another deeply, lovingly, and with grace.

It is creating my own rules—rules that do not destroy, rules that do not take away someone else’s humanity, rules that do not require another person to disappear so that I can feel righteous.

And it is continuing to share my truth so that I feel less alone.

Maybe I don’t need to conquer depression to tell the truth about living with it.

Maybe I don’t need to make myself more beautiful, more accomplished, more desirable, more palatable, more productive, or more acceptable before I decide that this life—my life—is worth being fully inside of.

Maybe part of the work is learning how to stay with myself.

Not the version of me on the list.

Not the version of me other people understand.

Not the version of me that performs wellness perfectly.

Me.

As always…

Searching for me,

dani tirrell

Not the city. The job.

The nightmare started long before the now-ousted ED ever stepped foot in the building. Before the ink was dry on my contract, before I even made the full move to DC. Because of an NDA, I have not publicly told my experience at Dance Place, and I’m choosing not to say much here either. This writing is not about Dance Place. It’s about healing the things that caused significant pain in your life — your dream job, your family, yourself.

If I’m going to talk about the failure of the straight, Black, male ED of Dance Place, then I have to talk about my own failures, and the failures of the white, queer, straight (and white-adjacent) women and men. I have to tell my experience of the founder and the community around that place. I am not crapping on the work the founder did to move dance forward — but not all of my experiences with the founder were great. And that’s not what people want to hear or face. Even writing this will get me a lot of hate. But I am built for hate.

That job, and family members, beat me down. I was a shell of myself in DC. If it weren’t for Mr. B and our cousins, I would have crumbled. After leaving, I wanted people to know I was better than I had been. I wanted them to know I was capable. I wanted to prove something. That, along with other things, kept me in a chokehold for over a year. I wanted to exact revenge on the ED, board members, and some staff members, just to make myself feel good. I wanted some community members to reach out and have my back.

Photo: Allina Yang (Off the Lead Residency ~ Artists Showing)

None of that happened. I replayed, ad nauseam, how I could have done things differently — how I could have shut my mouth, how I could have played the game to keep mostly white women happy. But none of that mattered. There was a lesson to be learned here, not only by me, but by the Dance Place community, by a family member, and by other folks in my life.

I admit, I’m still trying to figure out the lesson. Maybe it’s about not letting things freeze me. Maybe it’s about fully naming things before they get out of hand. Maybe it’s about getting out of my own way, so I can be greater. Or maybe it’s simpler than that — maybe the business of dance needs to shut down and start over. Maybe this thing we call dance-making isn’t about community at all, but about individuals trying to be the one who knows, gets, and holds all the perceived power. Or maybe it’s about me learning to hold some of that power myself.

The recent firing of DP’s AD and the resignation of the ED brought up a lot for me — along with a family member reaching back out to Mr. B — around healing. I thought I was over the events at DP and with my family, but I wasn’t. I got angry again. I wanted justification. I wanted people to reach out and say, we’re so sorry for how this ended for you, we should have done more. None of that happened.

What did open up for me was the huge amount of hurt and disappointment I felt from that community. As long as I held the position, people — for the good and the bad — were in contact with me. Once I left, I only heard from one person, outside the folks I was creating work with, and I was thankful she kept reaching out, even though we could never find the time to actually meet. We lived only a block or two from each other, and I wish we had found the time. But I digress.

This entire stretch of anger and disappointment, I was deeply hurt. Deeply hurt that no one thought of me enough to reach out and actually see what the deal was. I was recently told that I pushed people away and wasn’t open to talking to folks. I take full responsibility for my part in that. And I’ll also ask: can we stop seeing people as difficult, and start looking at their hurt and their pain — especially in the dance community. This community — and I’m talking specifically about concert dance and academia — is brutal, even when you’re following all the rules and doing your best to create the most community-involved experience possible. We are not good to each other in this community. And it is time we face the classism, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and proximity to whiteness that we all claim we want to dismantle and destroy.

Photo: Erin O’Reilly ~ Queers in Motion performance

This post is not to crap on DP or the community surrounding it. It’s to open up space for a deeper conversation — about dance, about deep hurt, about the lack of community care, and about something I haven’t mentioned yet: mental health. Not many people knew I was in a deep depression for a year and a half, and the effects of that experience are still felt today. It is still hard to show up in dance communities.

I am not looking for an outpouring of sympathy. I just want to share a bit of my experience. Maybe one day, when people are ready to not just hear about the bad, ugly Black man who brought down DP, but ready to really hear my full experience, I’ll share it.

Searching for Me, dani tirrell

From not being “trained” enough, to being too fat, not smart enough, too old, not being seen as a “good” choreographer or teacher, to working inside organizations built on foundations of gentrification, anti-Blackness, capitalism, and harm — even when those organizations are led by Black people.

And if I am being honest, I have also been problematic in dance.

I have participated in harm. I have mistreated dancers. I have moved through ableism, misogynoir, gatekeeping, transphobia, homophobia, ego, fear, and survival. I have also benefited from many of these same systems while criticizing them. Accountability requires me to say that plainly.

Photo credit: Erin O’Reilly

And with all of that… I still want dance to do better.

I still want dance to be the art form that breaks the system.

I want dance artists to admit that many of us are scared. Scared to do something different. Scared to fail publicly. Scared to create outside of institutional approval. Scared to make work that is alive, messy, political, spiritual, strange, experimental, or not easily consumable.

Some days I want to break up with dance forever.

But she keeps pulling me back in.

I thought I found a healthier relationship through Soul Line Dance, and honestly, for the most part, I did. Soul Line Dance re-sparked my love for movement and community. The way dances are shared. The excitement of people simply wanting to get on the floor and DANCE. The beauty of predominantly Black bodies moving together. The spirituality of it all.

And maybe what I love most is that, through my eyes, it feels less interested in performance hierarchy. Less interested in cyphers, battles, virtuosity, and proving who is the best in the room. People come to move, release, laugh, sweat, connect, and survive together.

It feels holy.

Now, I also know that the deeper I get involved, the more I will uncover. Every community has harm, politics, gatekeeping, ego, and contradiction. Part of me wants to stay in denial about that. Part of me wants at least one thing to remain untouched.

But this post is not really about Soul Line Dance.

This post is about the fact that I am preparing to dance again.

I am creating a new work on my body. No large ensemble. Maybe two additional dancers, maybe not. I have said many times that I no longer love performing, all while continuing to receive invitations to perform. And when I say I do not love it anymore, people rarely believe me.

The truth is: I do not love performing in the way I once did.

Give me process.
Give me research.
Give me space to create.
Give me room to fail.
Give me room to breathe.

But this new work feels different.

This time I feel called by God, ancestors, spirit, memory, grief, and something I cannot fully name to move my body through ritual. The calling is so strong that I have already declared, multiple times, that this work will be made with or without institutional support or funding.

That is how deeply this work is chewing at me.

And this brings me back to the beginning.

So many of us wait for the magical powers in dance to give us permission to create, explore, rest, breathe, and imagine. Capitalism — and yes, whiteness — has an enormous hold on dance, just like it does on most art forms.

We constantly talk about dismantling these systems, but those conversations often come to a screeching halt the moment people realize dismantling may also mean redistribution. It may mean some bodies — primarily white bodies and bodies closest to whiteness — no longer remain centered in every room, every grant cycle, every season announcement, every touring opportunity.

And because of that reality, artists like me are often left trying to figure out how to move forward without the same access to money, time, institutional trust, exposure, or sustainability.

Even artists like me who have, at times, benefited from the system.

It also means that so much undiscovered brilliance dies before it ever gets witnessed because institutions are often searching for the most exceptional bodies, the most polished language, the safest politics, the artists closest to whiteness, respectability, academia, and institutional comfort.

And many Black and brown artists learn to water themselves down in order to survive.

To become the “good” one.
The digestible one.
The understandable one.
The non-threatening one.

And almost nobody says:
“No, give us all of you.”
“Bring the dangerous parts too.”
“Bring the grief.”
“Bring the anger.”
“Bring the spirit.”
“Bring the contradiction.”
“Bring the unfinished questions.”

Because the truth is, institutions often want our brilliance without our disruption.

So now, as I move deeper into creating this new dance/theater ritual work, I know I will have to find creative ways to fund it, produce it, sustain it, and eventually tour it.

I will have to make gold from dirt.

And the thing about dirt is that it is full of nutrients. So full of nutrients that we forget this is how beauty has always been made.

From pressure.
From decay.
From labor.
From grief.
From survival.
From things people tried to bury.

This process also means I must hold myself accountable in deeper ways. It means being less afraid of saying and doing things that challenge what we all claim to want inside art-making spaces.

Am I scared? YES.
Do I want to do this? NO.
Am I called to do this? YES.
Will I make mistakes? DUH.
Will I succeed? NO DOUBT.
Will you support me? Time will tell.

Searching for me,

dani tirrell

The transition back to Washington State has not been easy. I am still doing contracting work and finding it difficult to secure full-time employment. The loss of my hero, my dad, has been one of the most difficult parts of these 51 years on this planet. Losing my mom was hard and is still hard, but there is something about his death that is hitting me differently.

Daniel Charles (that is what I call him) was not always an easy man to deal with, but he was honest in a way that moved you to do something different. I do believe that is where I get my tongue from. My holding grudges from my mom and my quick tongue from my dad — what a combination. But overall, they loved us and wanted the best for us and from us.

My family got different versions of him. My oldest sister, my brother, my youngest sisters, his wife, and his stepdaughters all experienced something different. Maybe I will write more on that later.

Daniel Charles gave me huge gifts. The first was cussing me out and telling me I had to get it together when I was in my late 30s. He said, “You are almost forty. You need to get your act together.” I was pissed, but I knew he was correct. That became the motivation I needed to make different choices.

The other gift was loving my queer Black ass. My queerness, at least to my knowledge, was never used as a weapon or a means to make me/us (Mr. B) feel less than my siblings. I knew he loved us deeply, and so did his wife, Lady Di. Maybe that is part of why this moment feels so hard. One of my heroes — my brother being the other one — is gone.

Even at this age, the security of simply having him here was enough for me. And now I feel vulnerable and almost empty. Mr. B has been great and will always be great, but life feels so different now that I cannot reach out to Daniel Charles Hooks.

So if you see me out and I am not actively engaged, it is not personal (not that I need to explain myself). I find it difficult to engage in small talk or relationships that are not genuine and centered in joy. If you are not part of my close friend group, my interactions may feel distant right now.

Yes, I am grieving, but I think mostly I am lost. The only time I feel fully present, in my body and open, is through line dancing. This line dance practice has allowed me to enjoy dance again and feel more creative. I feel part of a beautiful community that truly understands what dancing with people and being in community means. More on that later.

Anyway, this is a small glimpse into where I am and what has been going on. Yes, you can still say hello — and know that all I may have to offer is a simple hello in return until my body, mind, and spirit align again.

Searching for me,
dani tirrell

I want to shift gears now, still centering transition and what I am learning.

When my mother passed away, it wasn’t a shock—and yet it changed everything. It deeply affected me, my siblings, and their children. My mother lived with chronic illness and had survived several near-death moments. Every time she went to the hospital, I prepared myself to say goodbye. I had been waiting, year after year, for her transition.

My mother and her father pictured above.

When she actually passed, it felt cruelly inconvenient. February 2020—right before the world shut down. My partner, Mr. B, had just lost his father in January after our return from London. A few weeks later, my beloved aunt—my mother’s first-born sister—passed away. My aunt and mother were close; they traveled together, moved through life together. And then, just weeks after losing her sister, my mother followed.

How dare she leave when we needed her the most—when my siblings and cousins needed her to help us grieve her sister. How dare she leave when I had just finished a major show and was riding that high, before I could even share the highlights with her.

Fast forward to 2025. We are now facing the decline of other family members—actually, a few—who may transition before the year ends. I am not trying to rush anything. I am simply naming what is in front of us.

Five years after my mother’s death, and with what is unfolding now, I am learning something difficult and necessary: I must be ready when a loved one tells me it is time. Time to move into another space. Time to release sickness for rest. Time to trust that we will figure it out without them in the way we once knew.

We often guilt our loved ones into staying longer than they are prepared to. And if I’m honest, we do the same with jobs, relationships, and situations that have long passed their expiration date. We wouldn’t eat expired food—so why do we apply so much pressure for people to stay when their spirit is ready to move on?

I live with chronic health issues myself—manageable ones—and even that can be exhausting. I can’t imagine living with illness that is no longer controllable. Recently, I learned the full scope of what one of my family members is carrying in their body. In that moment, I made a decision: I will support them in choosing to keep living, or in choosing to move on. I don’t want them to go anywhere—but I understand that the pain of living with what they are enduring may be greater than any of us can truly comprehend.

Expecting someone to keep going, to be cared for after a lifetime of caring for others, is not always fair.

We don’t like to talk about death. We can’t imagine life without the people we love. But is it really living if they are robbed of the life they once knew?

And maybe this is another post—but I wonder the same about ourselves. Is it fair to our spirit, our joy, our happiness, to remain in jobs and relationships that function like sickness in the body? All transitions are hard. Letting go is heavy. But what if we chose lives with less disease, less harm, less hatred? What if we believed that what exists on the other side is greater than what we are clinging to now?

Would goodbye still feel so unbearable? Or would our grief be a loud, honest celebration of the life and gifts we were given?

Looking back at 2020, I realize I had waited so long for my mother to leave that I never gave her permission to do it on her own terms. I was so focused on needing her here—at any cost—that I didn’t fully honor her need to be free of pain, free of a life that no longer served her.

I believe my mother died of a broken heart after losing her sister. And I believe she was ready. She was fighting a different kind of fight. I believe she chose ancestorhood. I believe she and her sister knew they could serve us better from a more spiritual realm.

My mother and her children (missing is her bonus daughter)

For the past five years, death has lived close to my creative breath, my daily breath. One of the clearest lessons I’ve learned is this: I cannot hold on to my loved ones in the physical when the physical is no longer holding them.

It is okay to say thank you.
It is okay to say I love you.
It is okay to say goodbye.
And it is okay to say, I will see you on the other side.

Finding my joy,
dani tirrell

The answer came unexpectedly. One of my best friends invited me out for a night of dancing and fellowship. I was excited—until I arrived.

Do not get me wrong: Washington State is beautiful. The trees, the water, the air, the mountains, the islands. This is where much of my chosen family lives. This is where I have encountered people I deeply love and remain in relationship with. This is the place where I have found—and found again—my voice as an art maker, and where I have fought for and been supported in imagining better practices of care for Black Queer bodies. I have produced major performances here with tremendous support.

So why do I feel so disconnected?

I walked into a venue I love and saw people I love. But there was something missing—something essential. I was not in a room full of Black bodies.

My time in DC was short, but it was deeply meaningful. I learned hard lessons about false friendship, and equally profound lessons about chosen family. I witnessed Black people working, living, and thriving across nearly every industry the city has to offer. I experienced Black medical professionals caring for my body with an attentiveness I had rarely known in Seattle.

I walked into restaurants and stores and felt at home. People spoke to me in their full humanity—and offered it freely. I was affirmed by the sheer presence of Queer Black folks. My Black Queer relationship was affirmed. I was seen through a nod, a look, a shared understanding when something wasn’t right. I was affirmed in my nose, my thick body, my full lips, my kinky hair—okay, I’m bald—but you get the point. Black women’s bodies were celebrated for their fullness. AAVE was common, not policed. Black and Latin people were everywhere, and whiteness was sometimes the exception rather than the rule.

As I left the club early and drove home, it hit me: I am living in a place where it is profoundly difficult to be affirmed as a Black person.

I see Black American and African culture everywhere in Seattle—yet we are rarely the stewards of the spaces built from our culture. And when we do enter those spaces, we are often treated poorly. It is hard to walk into stores, restaurants, or down the street without people avoiding you at all costs. It is painful to rarely witness Black people loving and choosing other Black people openly. It is exhausting to see Black folks gravitate toward the most basic, mediocre white people while treating other Black people with disregard.

This is not about separation. This is about affirmation.

I love being affirmed by Black people, and I love affirming Black people. I love walking into spaces where Black energy is so loud and full you cannot help but be pulled into it. I have experienced beautiful, Black-curated spaces in Seattle, and I am still affirmed there. But they are few and far between. Often those spaces are not fully Black—or I am required to create them myself.

I write this to say: my distance is not personal. It is about survival. It is about getting what I need to exist in a place where—even under the banner of liberalism—my Blackness is treated as a distraction or a threat.

I also write this as an invitation to non-Black people: if you are steeped in Black culture, ask yourself how you affirm Black people in the spaces you occupy. This is not about silencing yourself—it is about interrogating the space you take up. Ask who affirms you, and who you consistently fail to affirm in return.

So if you see me out and I seem distant, or I leave early, know this: it is not personal. It is me tending to my need for deeper connection to my Blackness—which includes my ancestors, Black women, Black youth, and Black Queer people.

I am finding my joy.

— dani tirrell

Black American culture continues to be r*ped, beaten, and stolen—yes, r*ped—by this country. And that violence doesn’t come only from white people. It comes from Asian people, Latin people, and yes, sometimes from Black people who’ve aligned themselves with anti-Blackness to survive. Our culture is taken, watered down, repackaged, and sold back to us at a cost that keeps us dying—slowly or suddenly.

This looks like walking into dance classes taught by non-Black instructors who blast songs filled with “ni??a,” and not one person stops the music. It looks like people performing a kind of cultural Blackface—imitating our aesthetics, our rhythms, our swag—without carrying a single ounce of the lived experience. It looks like people refusing to name that what they’re doing comes directly from Black American people. And it looks like finding that one Black person who will co-sign their behavior so they can keep practicing a sanitized, digestible version of racism.

Yes, I am talking about some dance communities (and many communities in this world). I see it clearly after coming back to Seattle. And honestly? It makes me question my participation. Because I see how anti-Black violence sits in the room and folks pretend not to notice. I see how people fold into cowardice when liberation would require them to risk comfort, funding, or relationships.

This Black Friday, I wasn’t thinking about doorbusters. I was thinking about preservation—of Black life, Black breathing, Black dreaming. Preservation that Black people rarely get to experience in this country or anywhere in this world.

Because the truth is:
America preserves our culture but not our bodies.
They love what we create but not the people who create it.

And that, too, is violence.

Finding my joy,
dani tirrell

What I believed I wanted most was to be an artistic director of an arts organization, to dive deeper into the national dance ecosystem, and to create more touring work for The Congregation. I’ve done pieces of those things. And some of it came through trauma, miscommunication, and a dance ecosystem that will play in your face. I, too, have played in people’s faces while taking on those roles. In some of those positions, I was not living my values—I was too busy trying to do the thing that’s supposed to make a “successful dance career.”

But through many conversations with Monique at The Inspiration Lab, I realized: I have done beautiful work. And still, I was not fulfilled, or the fulfillment was wrapped in ego—mine and others’.

Sitting in these conversations brought me back to the things that have always given me joy: talking with artists about their practices, supporting them, connecting them to people who can help move their work forward. Learning, sharing, and creating spaces for people to dance—especially line dance. Building spaces that give people permission to discover themselves through dance and art. Making connections between movement and the lessons organizations need to survive. Being in rooms that lift up Black laughter, love, care, healing, and joy.

After these past few weeks of reflection, I’ve made decisions to move in directions that scare me to my core—but also give me life in ways I cannot ignore. These conversations with Monique, and my time at AAC, opened up new possibilities for me to return to what matters most. Part of that is rediscovering my love of teaching—remembering how healing it can be now that I’ve grown. Another part is building a practice of consulting with artists as they navigate this thing called art-making. And the third piece is developing workshops that help people think about leadership in their organizations through an art-based lens.

I know I’m still speaking vaguely—I’m dreaming out loud and beginning to put fingers to keyboard to imagine what these spaces can become. But what I do know is this:

Now is the time to move toward joy and toward a life rooted in your values.
Now is the time to be bold, to be tender, to be a little ridiculous.
Now is the time to breathe into peace.
Now is the time to…

Finding my joy,
dani tirrell

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This weekend I spent in the city of angels. I attended the Arts Administrators of Color (AAC) 2025 Convening—my first one was back in 2023 (Chicago, IL). I had such a positive experience then that I was excited to return. This time, I submitted a proposal to present a workshop—one I had been thinking about for some time. I was terrified and unsure if anyone would get it.

Much to my surprise, I was accepted—and asked to extend my session to two hours (cue more fear). After saying yes, the real work began. I had to clarify the session’s intention and create a structure that flowed for two hours. After feedback from Marlon, I felt ready… until it was time to present.

In that moment, I wanted to run. I didn’t trust myself, what was given to me, or that I was meant to share it. But there was no turning back. Nervous and insecure, I admitted to participants that I wasn’t an expert (if only I had the confidence of a… well, you know). Still, I pushed through. We danced. We talked about leadership and organizational dynamics. We laughed. We shared. Care was at the center.

At the end, I asked for feedback—good or bad. Folks looked at me like I was wild for even asking. They shared how they made connections, felt permission to express joy, and began to feel at home in their bodies. They said it was a positive, uplifting experience.

As I try to better understand transformative moments in my life, I realize they often come from doing the most ridiculous, scary thing—and trusting God, Spirit, ancestors, and the universe. It’s about accepting that what’s been given to you is yours alone to carry. It’s about getting out of your own way so the work can be done.

If the idea comes and it pulls on you, you’re the one meant to see it through. If you’re terrified and want to run—feel it, then embrace it.

This workshop—rooted in the connection between leadership and line dance—sparked something deeper in me. It reminded me that I know my ish and there’s no need to be afraid of it. What we put into the world won’t be everyone’s cup of tea… but somebody gonna drink from it. So, we keep brewing. ☕

With reflection,

dani tirrell

Leaving for D.C. wasn’t about outgrowing Seattle — it was about exploring something different. D.C. offered me a kind of Black joy, cultural connection, and movement landscape that nourished me deeply. I was finding my way into the DMV Soul Line Dance community and feeling truly expanded.

When jobs shifted and stability became uncertain, we made the decision to return — in part to support the relaunch of Bessie’s Cakes, and in part because sometimes life redirects us before we feel ready.

And here’s the truth: I started feeling a shift in Seattle even before moving back. I spent six months here earlier this year creating work, and I could feel something changing — in the city, in the dance landscape, and in myself. The rhythm is different. The energy is different. I am different.

Not better — just changed.
Not above — just arriving with new experiences, new questions, and a new way of moving in the world.

And that brings up emotion I didn’t expect:
fear, anxiety, curiosity, hope, and a quiet ache for what D.C. gave me.

I’m learning how to return without assuming I’m returning to the same place — or to the same me. I’m listening. I’m figuring out how to show up again without repeating the patterns of before.

This post is the beginning of sharing that process. I don’t know how often I’ll write — weekly, monthly — but I’m here. And I’m interested in what it means to come back to a place that held you, release the version of you that left, and meet the version that returned.

If you’re navigating your own transition — returning, relocating, rebuilding, re-imagining — you’re not alone. Let’s walk this shift together.

The ones that hate you most.

be a better human

When your humanity

Is questioned everyday

Know that people would rather

have you in a field naked and stoned to death

Thank you to see you thrive

be in this skin

When this skin is a target

For hate every damn day

not have the hateful

Words from white men

Seep into your thoughts daily

know that the police

Only want to protect and serve

White people

It is difficult to not see a way out of this hell we call the USA

Created by dani tirrell

Sep 17, 2025

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