The First Class Is Always Awkward
I still remember my first lyrical class. I was fourteen, fresh out of ballet where everything had a right angle and a wrong answer. The teacher put on a slow Snow Patrol song and said, "Just move how it feels." I stood there like a statue. Move how it feels? I didn't even know what I was feeling.
If your first lyrical class leaves you staring at yourself in the mirror wondering why you look robotic while everyone else looks like they're swimming through air, welcome to the club. That disorienting gap between what you feel inside and what your body actually does? That's the whole point. You're not broken. You're just learning a language that doesn't use words.
Throw Away the "Right Way"
Ballet trained me to aim for perfect turnout and precise placement. Jazz was all about sharp and sassy. Then lyrical came along and broke every rule I'd memorized. Here's the thing nobody prints on the studio brochure: lyrical dance isn't a technique you perfect. It's a conversation you have with a song.
Yes, you need ballet basics. Yes, jazz helps with isolations. But the moment you start treating lyrical like a math problem—"if I execute this penché at exactly 90 degrees, I'll nail it"—you've already lost. The best lyrical dancers I've ever watched weren't the most flexible or the ones with the highest extensions. They were the ones who looked like the music had physically entered their body and was trying to get back out.
Pick Songs That Make You Cry in the Car
Music selection isn't strategic. It's visceral. In my second year, our teacher let us pick our own songs for a solo. I chose a breakup anthem by Adele even though I'd never been dumped. I thought it sounded "lyrical." It was technically fine and emotionally dead.
Then a girl in my class choreographed to a stripped-down cover of "Mad World" that her dad used to play on guitar. She wasn't the strongest technician in the room, but when she ran across the floor in that routine, the whole studio went silent. You could hear people breathing. That's the difference.
Don't chase what sounds like "lyrical dance music." Chase the songs that give you that weird tightness in your chest when you're driving alone. The ones that make you remember a specific afternoon in eighth grade. That's your material.
Think Water, Not Geometry
Fluidity sounds like a buzzword until you actually feel it. Early on, I treated every eight-count like a series of poses to hit. Preparation, execute, hold, prep next. My teacher kept saying, "You're dancing like you're building a house, not like you're underwater."
The image that finally clicked: imagine your arms are sleeves of water, not sticks attached to your shoulders. When you reach, the movement doesn't start and stop at your fingertips—it ripples back through your shoulder blade, your ribcage, your spine. Transitions aren't the boring part between the cool stuff. In lyrical, they are the cool stuff.
Try this: put on something slow, close your eyes, and let one hand drop from above your head to your side. Don't "perform" it. Just let gravity have a say. Notice how your wrist doesn't want to move in a straight line? That's the beginning of lyrical. Follow the curve.
Your Face Is Part of the Choreography
I used to think emotional expression meant doing the steps really hard while looking intense. I'd furrow my brow and stare into the middle distance like I was solving a calculus problem. My teacher finally stopped the music and said, "You look angry. The song is about forgiveness."
Expressiveness isn't decoration. It's information. Your hands tell part of the story, but your eyes and breath tell the rest. The most powerful lyrical moment I ever had wasn't a leap or a tilt—it was a routine where all I did was look up at the ceiling and exhale. That was it. One breath. The audience leaned forward.
Start small. When you practice, don't just mark the arms. Mark the eyes. Where are you looking? When do you blink? When does your jaw soften? These tiny details read like a billboard from the house seats.
Consistency Beats Intensity
You don't need to live in the studio. Some of my biggest breakthroughs came from ten minutes in my kitchen, not two-hour rehearsals. I'd play one song on repeat and just walk around my apartment, trying to carry a single arm movement through a whole verse without making it feel mechanical.
The mirror is your brutally honest friend, but don't become obsessed with it. Film yourself sometimes instead. You'll catch habits you never notice in real-time—like that weird thing your hand does at the end of every turn. Fix one habit per month. That's it. By next year, you'll be twelve habits better without ever feeling overwhelmed.
Find Your People
I learned more from watching my classmates mess up than I did from watching professionals on YouTube. There's something about standing in a room where everyone is terrified and vulnerable at the same time. You start to borrow courage from each other.
If you can, take class in person. Online tutorials are great for learning choreography, but they can't replicate the energy of a room where fifteen people just watched you attempt a run for the first time and clapped anyway. The right studio feels less like a school and more like a support group with good lighting.
Give Yourself the Gift of Bad Days
Some days your body will feel like honey. Other days it will feel like a rusted hinge. Both are normal. I used to quit early on bad days, convinced I was getting worse. Now I know those are the days when something important is happening under the surface—your nervous system is integrating what felt impossible last week.
You won't see progress on a graph. You'll be doing a routine you've done a hundred times, and suddenly your chest will open on a phrase that used to make you tense. You won't plan it. It'll just arrive, like a letter you forgot you sent yourself.
So show up. Be terrible. Be awkward. Be unexpectedly wonderful. The music's already playing—you might as well answer it.
