Why Movement Works
Chapter 12
What I am doing with bellydancing and ballet is not just exercise. It is not just “trying to get in shape.”
It is therapy. The kind you do with your body, not just your brain.
There is a treatment for BDD called exposure and response prevention (ERP). It is a form of cognitive-behavioral therapy. The idea is simple: you face the thing you are afraid of, and you prevent the compulsive response.
For someone with BDD, the fear is usually being seen. Being judged. Seeing your own reflection and feeling destroyed by it. The compulsions are checking, comparing, hiding, overexercising, starving, asking for reassurance.
ERP says: Okay. Let’s look at your body. But let’s do it differently.
Let’s look at your body in motion instead of frozen in a mirror. Let’s feel your muscles work instead of counting their flaws. Let’s dance in front of a window where someone could see you—and then not run away.
This is what bellydancing does for me. I have to look at my belly. I have to move it. I have to feel it. There is no hiding in bellydance. The whole point is the belly.
And at first, the monster screamed. Look how soft it is. Look how it moves when you don’t want it to. Everyone will see.
But I kept dancing. And slowly, something shifted. I stopped looking at my belly and started moving from my belly. The difference is everything.
Ballet is different. Ballet asks you to stand tall, to point your toes, to hold your arms like you are holding something precious. Ballet says: You are long. You are strong. You are capable of grace.
When I do a plié, I feel my thighs. Not to judge their size. To feel their power. A plié is a squat. It is the movement that prepares you to jump. My thighs have carried me through construction work, through nine years of survival, through carrying children and losing children. They are not too big. They are adequate. They are enough.
Exposure therapy does not make the fear disappear. It makes the fear familiar. You learn that you can feel the monster and still move your hips. You learn that you can see your reflection and not run to the mirror to check. You learn that you can be seen—by yourself, by others—and survive.
I am not cured. I still overexercise some days. I still fast when the monster is loud. I still faint sometimes, though less than before.
But now I have another tool. I have dance.
When the monster says you are fat, I shimmy. When it says nobody looks at you, I do a tendu and look at my own leg with intention. Not judgment. Intention.
I am not dancing to be thin. I am dancing to be here.
And if you are reading this, and your monster is screaming right now, I want you to know: you do not have to dance. You do not have to do ballet. But you can move. One small movement. A stretch. A walk to the window. A wiggle of your hips while you wait for the kettle to boil.
The monster does not own your body. Your body belongs to you.
And your body, right now, exactly as it is, is worth moving.
My next post will include a few simple steps to start moving.
Meanwhile — I’m sending you love and magic, meet me under the Purple Cape.
💜 thepurplecape.ca · Just Trust