---
The first folk dance recital I ever watched, I was fifteen. My grandmother had taken me to a Romanian cultural festival in Cleveland, and a group of dancers came out in red and black embroidered vests, moving in perfect unison like water flowing downstream. I remember my grandmother pointing at the stage and saying, in her broken English, "You could do that." Twenty minutes later, I was signing up for my first Balkan dance class at a community center two blocks from our apartment.
That was fourteen years ago. I've performed at festivals across three countries, taught workshops in everything from Greek syrtos to Appalachian clogging, and yes, I've also spent long stretches wondering if I should just get a "real job" like everyone else. I've watched talented dancers burn out, flame out, and quietly disappear from the scene. And I've learned a few things the hard way — things no one really sits down and tells you when you're starting out.
This isn't a guide with seven neat tips. It's just what actually matters when you're trying to build a life around moving your body to music that hundreds of years of your ancestors also moved to.
The Foundation Nobody Checks For
Everyone wants to talk about finding your "style" or building your "brand." But here's what I've learned watching dancers who actually last: the ones who make it past the first five years have something boring but essential — a rock-solid foundation in the basics.
I'm not talking about advanced choreography. I'm talking about rhythm. Can you keep time while someone plays music you've never heard before? Can you feel the downbeat in a 7/8 time signature without counting in your head? Can you dance with someone who's slightly better than you and still look good?
These seem like obvious things, but I've seen incredible performers freeze up when the music changed or when they had to improvise with an unfamiliar partner. The fundamentals aren't sexy. They won't make for an impressive Instagram clip. But they'll keep you on your feet when it matters — and that's what separates people who do this for a living from people who did it for a year.
Take at least one class a week, even when you think you've moved past it. Find a teacher who makes you feel like you're starting over. That discomfort is the point.
Culture Isn't Optional Decoration
There's a trap I see young folk dancers fall into all the time: they learn the steps, they get the costume, they nail the performance, but they don't know anything about where the dance comes from. It becomes a costume — something you put on and take off.
Here's the thing: audiences can tell. And more importantly, the communities that carry these traditions can tell.
When I started dancing Greek folk pieces, I didn't just learn the steps to a hasapiko. I spent time with Greek immigrants in Astoria, Queens. I listened to their stories. I ate at their tables. I heard why certain dances were for men only, why this song was played at weddings, why that step changed after the war. That context transformed how I moved. Suddenly I wasn't performing a routine — I was carrying something.
This doesn't mean you need to become an anthropologist. But it means watching documentaries, reading the history, talking to elders at cultural events. It means showing up to the Greek festival not just to dance, but to watch the grandmothers dance. It means caring about the music, not just what your body does to it.
Your body will follow. But without the roots, you're just someone in a costume.
Your Style Isn't Something You Force
"Develop your unique style" is advice I've heard a thousand times, and it's almost always given badly. People think it means adding extra flourishes or wearing weird shoes or doing something nobody else does. That's not style. That's just being different for the sake of being different.
Real style is what happens when you've done something so many times that it becomes an extension of you. It's what emerges when you've danced Bulgarian line dances so many times that your body starts adapting the steps to your own frame, your own energy, your own way of moving through space. You can't force it. You can only get out of your own way.
The dancers I've seen develop the most distinctive styles are usually the ones who've invested the deepest in tradition first. They've absorbed so much that they can let go of thinking about every step — and in that freedom, something personal emerges. It might be the way you shift your weight, the way you connect with a partner, the way you smile at the audience during a particular turn. It doesn't need to be dramatic. But it should be yours.
Don't chase uniqueness. Chase depth. The style will follow.
The Loneliest Part Isn't the Dancing
Networking gets framed like it's about collecting business cards or adding people on LinkedIn. In folk dance, it's much simpler and much harder: it's about showing up consistently, being someone people want to work with, and being in rooms where decisions get made.
Here's what no one tells you: half of the opportunities in this world come from knowing someone who knows someone. Not because it's corrupt or unfair — just because it's how culture works. We trust people we've seen over and over. We recommend dancers we've watched grow. We invite people we like to projects that could go to anyone.
This means going to festivals even when you're tired. It means saying yes to unpaid gigs that sound interesting. It means being the person who helps load equipment and doesn't complain about the hours. It means sending a message to that choreographer you admire just to tell them you loved their show — not to ask for anything, just to be present in their world.
Twenty years from now, the opportunities you remember won't be the ones you auditioned for. They'll be the ones that came from someone who thought of you because you'd shown up for their last three shows, or because you'd helped out at a workshop when no one asked.
Be the person people think of. That's all networking actually is.
What You Do Between the Shows Matters More Than the Shows
Having a portfolio matters. Having a reel matters. But here's what I've noticed: the dancers who build sustainable careers aren't just great at shows. They're great teachers, great collaborators, great communicators. They're people other people want to be around, not just watch.
Consider this: every single thing I've learned performing has doubled when I've had to teach it. Explaining a step force-feeds you understanding. Managing a class builds patience. Writing about dance sharpens your view of what you do.
Teaching doesn't have to mean opening a studio. It means running a workshop at a community center. It means making videos explaining a sequence you know. It means mentored someone younger than you. It means writing a blog post about why this dance matters.
The more you can give away what you know, the more people will want to bring you along. And honestly? Some of the most fulfilling moments I've had in this career have been teaching a dance to someone who then went on to love it more than I ever did.
The Setbacks Are the Career
I want to tell you that if you work hard and stick with it, success comes. But I'd be lying if I didn't add: it comes in ways you don't expect, on a timeline you didn't plan, and often after failures that feel permanent at the time.
I've lost gigs I needed. I've been injured badly enough that doctors told me to stop. I've watched dancers with more talent than me quit because they couldn't afford to keep going. And I've had moments where I genuinely didn't know if I'd pay rent next month.
What I've learned is this: resilience isn't a character trait you either have or don't. It's something you practice. It's getting back in the studio the day after a rejection. It's taking a class the week after an injury. It's continuing to show up when it would be easier to assume this was just a hobby.
The dancers who are still dancing in twenty years aren't the most talented. They're the ones who kept showing up.
---
The honest truth? I don't know if you'll make it. I don't know if any of us really do. But I know this: the years I've spent doing this strange, impractical, beautiful thing have been more interesting than anything else I could have done with my body and my time.
Your grandmother was right at that festival in Cleveland. I could do that. And so can you — if you're willing to put in the work, stay humble, and stick around long enough to find out what you're actually capable of.
Now get to the studio.
