Before every Dancing With the Stars performance, there is a quiet moment behind the glitter and chaos where everything slows down. It happens when I take out my dad’s shirt — soft, familiar, worn with memories — and slip it over my shoulders. The second the fabric touches my skin, I feel something shift. It’s as if he’s there again, steady and warm, guiding me the way he always did.
It isn’t just a memory. It’s a presence — a pulse.
A heartbeat.
When I step onto the ballroom floor, every spin, every lift, every breath carries a piece of him. His bravery threads through my movement. His joy fuels my timing. His love anchors me even when the choreography feels overwhelming or the pressure becomes too much.
Under the spotlight, there are nights when the emptiness still breaks through. The world sees sequins, smiles, and perfect posture — but inside, I feel the quiet ache of losing him, the kind of pain no stage lights can hide. But then there are the nights when it feels like he’s right beside me. I can almost hear him cheering, whispering that I’ve got this, reminding me that I’m never dancing alone.
That shirt… it’s more than fabric.
It’s a lifeline.
It wraps around me like a hug from heaven, grounding me in the truth that love doesn’t disappear — it transforms. It becomes steps, strength, breath. It becomes the courage to walk onto a stage and tell a story without saying a word.
Every time I dance, I am doing more than performing choreography.
I am honoring him.
With each movement, I keep a part of him alive — in the rhythm, in the emotion, in every heartbeat that syncs with the music. And no matter where this journey takes me, one thing will never change:
He will always dance with me.
