Whoops. I just realized my camera is still set on “beautiful skin” mode from last night, so tonight’s picture is once again highly airbrushed, and that’s why I look like a cartoon. Oh well, there are worse things in life. Currently I’m propped up in bed, where I’ve spent most the day, either working or reading. Since it’s a heated waterbed, it’s the warmest seat in the house, and I’ll probably just stay here until springtime. Of course, I’ll get out of bed to eat meals and use the bathroom.

I’m not a complete animal.

I recently started working with a large swing-dancing event, and in an effort to enhance the event’s “sense of community,” I’ve started a series of social media posts in which we profile individual dancers, competitors, instructors, and organizers associated with the event. (Not profile like something a police detective would do, but profile like tell their stories and let people get to know them.) So far I’ve interviewed about a dozen people and written about three of them. I can’t tell you how rewarding this has been. Having attended this event, which often boasts over five hundred dancers, I’ve often felt–um–disconnected–because it’s easy to get lost in the crowd. Sure, maybe you spend the whole night dancing, but you can still walk away feeling like you don’t really know anyone and no one really knows you.

I’m hoping this project will, in some way, change all that. I know it’s changing it for me, since I’ve already fallen in love with twelve people I wasn’t in love with before. Maybe “fallen in love” isn’t the right phrase to use. What I mean is that with each person I interview, I begin to care about them. The more I learn about who they are, where they came from, and what’s important to them, the more compassion I have for where they soar and where they stumble. Earlier today someone whom I have always seen as completely confident and a total badass told me they spent most their developmental years feeling inadequate, that they “wanted desperately to be cool.” This evening another badass dancer told me they started dancing as a way to cope with their parents’ divorce. They said they grew up in a conservative home, and three-minute dances were a way to practice small talk, something they didn’t learn as a homeschooler.

What I’m taking away from all this is the simple reminder that everyone has a story, and every story matters, at the very least to the person who tells it. I know that often when I’m in large crowds, I start comparing myself. It’s easy to do at dance weekends. You look around and find one reason or another to feel more than or less than. But story by story, person by person, I’m learning that we really are all equal. People are just people. Just because you can dance like a motherfucker doesn’t mean you’re not struggling at home. Just because your face is nice to look at doesn’t mean you don’t have a heart that’s capable of being broken. These things happen to humans, and there isn’t a one of us who isn’t human.

As much as I’m enjoying this project, it’s also taking a lot of my energy. It’s not easy to truly listen to another person, to intentionally pry into their lives then try to be okay with whatever you find there. Someone told me they had three people in one hour walk away from them because they weren’t wearing a certain-color wristband and, therefore, weren’t “good enough.” This happened several years ago, but they haven’t forgotten it. When I asked someone else what dance did for them, they started crying. They said, “I’m an introvert. Words are hard for me. Dancing lets me express myself in a way that I simply can’t verbally.”

This is an emotional roller coaster to go on, really getting to know people and asking them to unload on you. And, honestly, it’s a strange thing to do. I get on the phone with total strangers and start asking about their childhoods. Usually I say, “My name is Marcus, and here’s what I’m doing. Okay, let’s dive right in.” The average conversation lasts anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, and before it’s over, in most cases, I’m asking questions I’ve never asked most my friends. All of a sudden I’m elbow-deep in someone’s else’s life. Earlier tonight I sent an email to someone I’ve only met a few times and asked, “What do you worry about at night?” and “Has dance saved you from anything, and–if so–from what?”

I’m finding that I have to pace myself through conversations like these. My original (and overly ambitious) intent was to write a story a day from now until the event, which would be about fifty stories. Now I’m thinking maybe five a week will suffice. As much as I enjoy getting to know everyone, it’s a lot. It’s a lot to keep your heart open for another person. Plus, most the conversations, by design, are one-sided. That’s okay, but the pacing part means that I need to take time for me–read a book or watch a movie, find somebody who’s willing to listen to my story as much as I’m willing to listen to someone else’s. I mean, I do have a good therapist and intend to use her. This, I think, is simply about balance, about recognizing my strengths alongside my limitations, about realizing that I’m a human too.