I have been dancing for as long as I have known myself.

I grew up in California in a Colombian family where music, rhythm, and celebration were woven into daily life. My father taught me how to dance, and through him I learned that movement was never separate from living—it was a way of gathering, listening, and belonging.

Before I had language for emotion, I understood sensation and rhythm. Dance taught me how to pay attention. It taught me how to listen and how to remain close to something intangible, shaping the way I move through the world and deepening my gratitude for moments of genuine connection.

Later in life, movement continued to mirror my trajectory. I moved often, at times living nomadically and attempting to build a life elsewhere. Through constant transition, I learned to hold meaning as it arrived—to recognize the fleeting nature of intimacy, place, and belonging without losing my openness to them. I learned how to arrive without force, how to listen before acting, and how to feel my way into unfamiliar rooms. Through it all, my body became both a compass and a home.

My work inhabits these in-between spaces—not as absence, but as ground. I live between softness and speed, in the folds of weight and release, in the negotiation between urgency and stillness. I am drawn to sensation as architecture: how one moment unfolds into the next, how the body responds to itself, to others, and to the world it inhabits. I attend to texture, rhythm, and effort, to the subtle shifts that carry intention. Each motion holds a paradox—firmness in vulnerability, clarity in surrender, energy in quietude.

There is reverence here: for the senses, for what cannot be named, for the poetry of ordinary experience. This is a practice of noticing, of breath, of availability. To enter it is to arrive fully in the body, to feel gravity and freedom at once, to let the body and heart speak together. This is where I reside.