The opening notes filled the elementary school gym, and my body shifted before my mind even registered the song. It was an Algerian French singer I used to dance to, his voice weaving Arabic and French together in a way that made movement inevitable. My son's music teacher had invited parents in for a folk-dance event during school hours. Parents and children gathered in the gym to learn dances from different parts of the world, different traditions, and different languages. The hour was so much fun for me to engage with and witness. As I settled in to watch, I noticed the kids were learning far more than dance steps.
They learned to navigate touch: clapping hands, hooking arms to skip, moving in synchronized circles. They had to manage that connection, noticing when a partner needed more space and gently adjusting while keeping the rhythm going. They learned mutual quick collaboration, switching partners mid-song while staying in step. They had to follow the rules of each dance while also following their bodies' impulses to move. And after almost a week of no school due to weather, I thought about how perfect this was, getting their bodies moving again, releasing the pent-up energy that builds when children are kept still too long.
When that Algerian song played, something in me came alive. I smiled without deciding to. My shoulders loosened. And suddenly I was transported.
I'm in the car with my parents and brother, driving to my aunt and uncle's house. As soon as we walked through their door, music was already playing. Sometimes Gypsy Kings, Kékélé, or other artists that reminded the adults of back home, even though back home was different countries for each of them. The house filled with love and happiness. We usually met on Saturday evenings for dinner together. My aunt would be in the kitchen, my Dad would make his famous mango ice cream, my Mom helping my aunt with cleanup, my Uncle talking to everyone as he hosted, and my cousins upstairs. I would run up to hang out with them.
When a Gypsy Kings song plays to this day, I am embraced with the same feelings from my childhood. A smile washes over my face and my body starts to move remembering my aunt and uncle setting down whatever they were holding to embrace each other and dance for a moment. No announcement. No plan. Just the song, and their bodies remembering how to move together.
Neuroscience is teaching us what our ancestors likely already knew: music and movement impact our emotions in profound ways. They allow emotions to be felt and to be released. Research shows that rhythm can regulate our nervous system, bringing us back into balance when we're dysregulated. Bilateral movement, the kind we do when dancing, walking, or swaying, helps our brains process difficult experiences and emotions. Music accesses memory and emotion simultaneously in ways that bypass our cognitive defenses. Our bodies know things our minds haven't articulated yet.
With clients, I often talk about creating different playlists, and we figure out together when to use which one. I'll say something like: "What if you had a playlist for when you need to feel your feelings, not run from them? And another for when you've sat with those feelings long enough and you're ready for a shift?" One client created a "Permission to Grieve" playlist for her car rides home from work, songs that let her cry safely before she walked through her front door. Another made a "Morning Reset" playlist with songs that got her body moving before difficult days, literally shaking off the dread that tried to settle in her chest. Other clients create a playlist that tells the story of their journey through trauma.
When we're feeling sad, sometimes it's important to feel the sadness and not simply distract from the emotion. Other times we may have spent a good amount of time in our sadness and be ready for a shift. Music and movement can serve both purposes.
After my brother passed away, I would often turn on the music in my room and dance. I would choreograph routines that allowed my grief to flow through my body. I could feel the hurt and pain when I couldn't name it. Songs gave words to what I couldn't articulate, and movement allowed me to feel the grief while not keeping it trapped inside. I didn't know that's what I was doing. I wasn't thinking about nervous system regulation or bilateral processing. I just followed my intuition. My body knew it needed to move.
There are individuals on social media talking about how they used belly dancing to heal from traumatic accidents, about ancient generational practices of dancing in community to process collective grief and celebrate collective joy. These aren't new discoveries. They're old wisdom being remembered. Cultures around the world have always known that we need to move together, to let music move through us, to allow our bodies to express what our words cannot.
I think about those children in the gym, learning dances from countries they may never visit, moving to rhythms their bodies had never felt before. They were learning more than steps. They were learning that their bodies hold wisdom. That movement is a language. That music connects us across time and place and language. That sometimes, when we don't know what to say or how to process what we're feeling, we can simply move.
Children intuitively move, sing, or dance to release emotions. We all did once. Maybe the work isn't learning something new. Maybe it's remembering what our bodies have always known.