I have been dancing for as long as I have known myself. My first dance floor was my living room. I grew up in California in a Colombian family where music, rhythm, and celebration filled the house late into the morning. My relatives and I danced hard, and I often fell asleep right there in the living room while the party continued around me. But the dancing did not end when the music stopped. It continued throughout my days—with my father, alone, outdoors, with friends, anywhere I could move. Very early on, it became clear to me that my body craved movement constantly. Dance was never separate from life. It was the way I moved through the world.

Dance taught me how to pay attention. Before I had language for emotion, I understood sensation and rhythm. Movement taught me how to listen. It taught me how to stay close to something intangible, shaping the way I relate to others and deepening my gratitude for moments of real connection.

Dance creates an immediate entry point into a relationship. It allows people to meet beyond introduction, beyond performance, beyond the careful choreography of social exchange. The body brings us into the present tense together. In movement, we reveal ourselves through attention, timing, weight, breath, and care. The body becomes a site of recognition—a place where we can witness one another more honestly.

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. It has become a mysterious gift. I learned how to arrive without force, how to listen before acting, how to feel my way into unfamiliar rooms. Though it all, my body became both compass and home. That education still informs me.

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.