This piece was written by one of our dear readers—a woman with something real to say. Each month, we handpick the best submissions for Dear Reader because we’re after that PROVOKED bite: truth, intelligence, and heart. These stories come from women our age—women who’ve lived enough to know better and still care enough to tell it anyway. Because being seen and heard matters. Because storytelling is how we stitch ourselves to one another. And because when one woman speaks her truth, another finally recognizes her own. — Susan Dabbar, Editor-in-Chief
Latin ballroom competition, 2.5-inch heels, and a category for women 61 to 70. My refusal to disappear.
“I’ve forgotten everything.”
Those were the last words I uttered moments before stepping onto the dance floor for my first Latin ballroom competition, wrapped in sequins, spray tan, and panic.
“You’ll be fine,” said my dance partner, taking my hand and leading me into the lights.
Two years earlier, I didn’t even know Latin ballroom existed.
I returned to my love of dance in my late 50s at a studio near my home. One day at the studio, I saw women with these short, colorful, sexy dresses and asked, “What are those for?”
“We have a competition,” one of them said. My first thought was not practical or sensible. These women were younger than me, some by at least a decade. But I’ve always believed in challenging myself and rising when something scares me.
My next thought was: Wait, I can compete in this?
So I made a deal with myself: When I turned 60, my goal would be to start competing. Bronze-level, newcomer. To my complete surprise, I scored well in Bronze, and a few years later, at the urging of the studio owner, I registered for the United States Dance Championships (USDC), also known as Nationals, in Bronze and my new age bracket: 61 to 70.
I dance in Pro-Am International Latin ballroom. I’m the obvious amateur, dancing with a seasoned pro.
The Spray Tan, the Heels, the Armor
I’m standing butt naked in nothing but a hair net in a tanning salon, attempting to turn my pale skin into something more stage-ready bronze. God, they really do spray everything. “Bend forward,” the technician says.
Yup. There too.
Before discovering Latin ballroom, my internal dance vocabulary was all Fosse, jazz hands, and a little Martha Graham. But if a dance style had been custom-made for my personality, this was it: cheeky, theatrical, and just naughty enough to make good manners nervous.
International Latin ballroom consists of five dances: Cha Cha, Samba, Rumba, Paso Doble, and Jive. Each is a completely different emotional language, spoken by the same body. Flirtatious to ferocious, sensual to explosive, love story to bullfight. I had to become fluent in all five. But learning five dances isn’t like learning five songs. Each one rewires my body and my brain to move, to be a certain way.
My partner and teacher, Ilya, is ruthless in his expectations. My weight transfer is too late. My hips aren’t rotating properly because my footwork is a half-beat too slow. My foot isn’t striking the ground with enough swift certainty. My hips need to be more “oozy.”
“Sharon, we’ve been over this again and again,” he implores. Sometimes I’ve come close to tears. My brain must hold choreography, musicality, technique, and raw emotion at once, all while making it look effortless. I wonder if my body will ever cooperate.
Fake Eyelashes. Real Terror.
I’m in Orlando for Nationals, asking myself why I’m nervous. I know the choreography cold. I’ve practiced, rebuilt, polished, and muscle-memorized it. This is just another competition, except there are 16 other women in my category, and every one of us has earned the right to be formidable.
Hair and makeup, what I call my high-class hooker look, begins. My hair is slicked back so tight it previews what a facelift might accomplish. When it’s complete—from the over-the-top eyelashes to the jet-black eyeliner to the seriously sculpted cheekbones—I look at myself and audibly gasp. I feel fierce, powerful, ageless. I could play one hell of a dominatrix. But the transformation isn’t vanity. It’s armor. It helps me step into the woman I become on the dance floor: bolder, sharper, a little dangerous. It’s empowering, the construction of my inner Latin vixen, dancing in 2.5-inch heels and pretending it’s normal.
I’m having a blast, and after eight rounds and 40 dances, my feet and hips are finally meeting my expectations.
We make the final round. Each couple is introduced by name and state, walking from backstage into the spotlight. Ilya twirls me into position while hundreds of spectators look on. I think: This is surreal.
With each round, I get more confident. More brazen. This is my last shot dancing Bronze, and I feel freedom, unfettered joy, and a hefty dose of watch-this-mama-do-this. I’ve always said competing is the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Five dances later, Ilya and I take our final bows and leave the floor.
And Then They Called My Name
The announcer calls our heat number and starts awarding the top couples: sixth, fifth, fourth. Third, and my heart is sprinting. Ilya leans in and whispers, “I think we’ve got this.” I shoot him a look that says: Are you nuts?
The announcer calls first place. USDC National Latin Pro-Am Champion in Bronze in my age category. Us.
Outside, I’m cool as a cucumber, proudly walking to receive our award. Chin up, shoulders back, confident and poised. Inside, my 64-year-old self is completely undone. Not just because I won, but because I showed up. Because I walked out in this ridiculous, magnificent, red sequined dress and I didn’t disappear.
Latin ballroom didn’t give me permission. But it did hand me a mirror and ask whether I was still willing to be seen. And standing there in that dress, in those heels, in that body that has mothered, aged, stretched, softened, strengthened, doubted, tried, failed, learned, I had my answer.
