I’ve loved dance for as long as I can remember. At three, I was twirling in the living room in my socks, copying routines from ballet class and demanding an audience. Because of this love, my Mom introduced me to the show Dancing with the Stars. Tuesday nights, we claimed the couch like it was our own theater. She tucked me under her arm, the lights of the TV spilling across the room, and suddenly I wasn’t just spinning alone in my socks, I was part of a ballroom, a story, a world lit up by glitter and music.
The show became our ritual. We didn’t just watch; we studied. We counted spins, sang along to the songs, held our breath when the lifts looked risky. I wanted to dance like the pros, and she humored me by guessing scores, sighing when our favorite contestants stumbled, cheering when the judges finally agreed with us. It wasn’t just entertainment, it was connection.
And it wasn’t only ours. Across the country, in towns and cities I’d never seen, living rooms looked like ours. Mothers and daughters curled up on couches, sharing popcorn bowls, sharing commentary, sharing time. DWTS became more than glitter; it was a cultural thread weaving through families, a weekly ritual of closeness. Some moms were passing on their love of old Hollywood musicals, some daughters were just discovering what ballroom was, but all of us were finding a rhythm together. In the ballroom’s shine, we belonged to something bigger than our own household.
Now, in college, I watch in a different living room. My suite mates gather around, adding their own laughter and banter to the mix. We’ve made it ours, but the tradition with my Mom doesn’t end when the credits roll. The next morning, I call her. We replay the night: who nailed it, who didn’t, who got robbed in the elimination. She listens to my rants, I laugh at her hot takes, and for those minutes, the miles between us shrink. Dancing with the Stars has always been about more than dance. For me, it’s the sound of belonging, Tuesday nights with Mom, and now mornings on the phone, both of us still swept up in sequins and song. It’s a reminder that across years and generations, the dance floor is wide enough for all of us.