In the worn-out dance studio, among the throng of whispering girls, I loosened my suffocated energy. Back then, as a third-grader, I had the stereotype engraved in my mind that boys were too cool to dance or sing — that was for girls. I was chained to my friends’ misconceptions of “Dancing is so girly!” and “What boys dance?”

Even then, I still danced at home. My brother would play the third movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” and I would spin the velvet keyboard cover around me and my penguin pajamas while performing my best interpretation of interpretive dance. While I was twirling and sashaying, my mom noticed my interest in dance.

Therefore, at the beginning of third-grade, I trudged up the stone steps of the church where I would have my first contemporary dance class. After signing in, I glanced at the manager’s face as she shook my hand and nudged me towards the studio. Imagine my surprise at the bright eyes and blossoming smiles that abounded — not at all the cold, stony faces I had expected.

Yet walking into the studio, my deepest fears were confirmed: there were only girls there. They were huddled in groups in different corners — blonde, black, and brunette heads down and voices hushed. Some were stretching on barres. I subconsciously shuffled my bright blue-and-green Sketchers when I spotted the girls’ pink ballet and jazz shoes. My anxiety was further exacerbated by the tall mirrors lining the front wall that multiplied each person, 10 girls reflected into 20 and then 30. I watched a girl kick her legs so that they formed a line in the air, her back straight, toes flexed, arms curved perfectly.

I gulped.

The smell of the warm, fuzzy sunlight wafting in through the window was suffocating, choking any words out of me. My heart pounded against my body even harder. I had stepped back into the doorway, one leg twitching to leave and the other rooting me to the ground, with a fear of my mother’s chastising voice keeping it there. “Do you know how long I worked to find that place and sign you up there? Do you know how much money I paid? Now, I did my part. Time for you to take one for the team.” I could already hear that conversation.

Then something brushed my arm, and I looked down to see a little fair-haired boy step into the room. The poise in his gait, the confidence in his relaxed posture — he was everything I wanted to be. He was a stranger like me and therefore, a friend.

When the class started and we all sat down in a circle on the polished cedar wood floor to introduce ourselves, the girls encouraged me to join, those stone-cold faces defrosting and emanating their true warmth. Enthusiastic words like, “C’mon, join us!” and “Yeah, it’ll be fun,” and “Just get in the circle!” surrounded me as my nerves eased slightly and I slid into the circle.

For the next hour, I didn’t care how good I was at dancing or how I looked; I just lost myself in the groove and beat of the songs on the instructor’s 2010s Pop Hits playlist. We even broke off into small groups and choreographed our own 30-second dances to perform to the class, my previous piano ribbon experience kindling my creativity as I jumped and sashayed across the room. As the class ended and my heavy breaths rasped in my ears, I felt the thrill of dance, a garbage chute for my restlessness and voice for my passion for music. The chains of stereotypes that once ensnared my heart were broken by the excitement and the girls’ accepting smiles. I had the same right to dance as anyone else; my curiosity would no longer be overshadowed by generalizations of what activities certain genders could do.

Dancing out of the building that day into the fresh fragrance of the open air, my mind was a tornado of excitement and gratitude for this dance class. Among all the emotions came: “Mom, I want to go again.” And so I did — again and again and again.