At the start of this year, I sat down with a vision board and three clear focus areas. Three felt realistic. Manageable. Balanced.
Naturally, I ended up going all in on just one: Health. But it didn’t unfold in the way I expected. It didn't look like a gym routine or a strict diet. It looked like a pair of four-inch heels on a Thursday night.
The Threshold of "Not Me"
I’ve been dancing for about two years now, mostly girls' hip-hop. It was fun, it was familiar, and it was a space where I felt safe. But in the back of my mind, a "Heels" class was always lingering. I hadn't ignored it; I had actively avoided it.
It felt too bold. Too visible. A little too… not me.
I had watched other women dance in heels with a kind of confidence that didn’t look forced—a grace where they seemed fully at home in their own skin. I wanted that. Not because I was unhappy with where I was, but because I knew there was a version of myself waiting on the other side of that Thursday night.
The Sunday Morning Reflection
The first time I walked into the studio, I almost turned around. Everyone else seemed to radiate the "right" energy. They had the outfits, the poise, and the presence. And then there was me: T-shirt, shorts, and a pair of heels clutched in my hand.
I remember thinking: Do I even have the right to wear these?
I stayed anyway. To be honest, I was awkward. I overthought every step. I felt slightly out of place the entire time. But I realized that the "health" I was seeking wasn't about physical perfection or discipline, it was about the mental stamina to stay in the room when I felt uncomfortable.
Confidence isn't a starting point; it’s the reward for showing up when you feel like an imposter.
When the Studio Meets the Studio
Slowly, things started to shift. The energy of the dance floor didn't stay behind the studio glass. I started saying "yes" more easily. I stepped into rooms before I felt fully ready.
Then, the most unexpected thing happened: my hobby began to speak to my work as a designer.
I noticed the small, unintentional frictions of my new routine. I was carrying my heels in random, bulky bags or letting them tumble around next to my laptop. It felt cluttered, unrefined. I started thinking: There has to be something better. Something compact, designed for a real, multi-faceted life. Something I’d be proud to carry from a client meeting straight to a rehearsal.
I didn’t plan for dance to influence what I create at Evermugi this year. But inspiration rarely follows a strategic map; it lives in those small, honest moments of noticing what’s missing in our own lives.
Closer to the Light
Three months into the year, I’m still dancing. I’m still learning, and yes, I’m still awkward sometimes. But I’m closer.
I am closer to feeling at home in my body. I am closer to that version of myself I used to only admire from a distance. Most importantly, I’m no longer asking if I have the "right" to wear the heels.
I just put them on. And I dance on.