This is my second year competing, but it feels overwhelming like the first. Glaring lights accentuate akimbo limbs and coiffed curls in a vague sea of faces, and I briefly wonder how the judges can focus on any one of us. I feel stifled by the heat rising from our bodies, a throng of dancers crowding the floor, 100-watt lightbulbs all eager to outshine each other.

The judges announce my partner, and we size each other up with a curt nod. This tiny gesture answers the most important questions—“Are you a generous dancer? Will you make this dance about us instead of showing off? Can you let loose and have fun?”—with the respectful nonchalance of a seasoned professional. At least, that’s what we want each other to think. The dance floor will soon reveal the truth in three minutes of unadulterated, creative expression.

The song begins. I feel my pulse quicken as my ears strain to make out the driving rhythm over the din of heavy shoes clop-clopping on the floor. Nervously, I lead a two-move pattern. Then another. My partner frowns slightly as if she suspects that I’m recalling practiced patterns from the past instead of being present.

I remember the words of my first instructor: “dancing is less about thinking, more about feeling.” I let them become my mantra until the meditation fills my mind and brings me to a point of stillness. My steps flow after that. Now a smile spreads upon her lips, and we stand, breathless, as the crooning of Frank Sinatra fades into silence.