He had no idea he changed something in me.
There's a guy I think about often. I don't know his name. I never spoke to him. He wore a red hoodie pulled down over his eyes and he was completely, utterly gone — lost in his body, free in a way I'd never seen anyone be free before.
I was in Thailand. I'd been invited to my first ecstatic dance, lights fully on, no one drunk, no darkness to hide in. And I was standing there feeling completely exposed, not knowing what to do with my body. What's the style here? How does everyone just... let go like this?
I kept looking back at him all evening. At the end, everyone sat in a circle and he just got up and left. He has no idea he changed something in me. But he's one of those people — the ones who pass through briefly and show you exactly who you want to be.
Dance has been with me my whole life. It started in late 90s London — punk and indie parties where the whole point was to go as crazy as possible. Drunk, flailing, bouncing off each other, mosh pits. No one was performing. We weren't dancing like anyone was watching.
Looking back, I realise we were expressing things we didn't have words for — joy, yes, but also anger, frustration, the full mess of being 17.
Then I found Trance. A scene in London that was electric, music designed to build you and drop you, to take you somewhere you didn't know existed. I was getting lost in something I'd never thought possible. Dance became my happy place. Somewhere to disappear.
I never really related to dancing to be seen. Dancing to cruise. I avoided gay clubs until my mid-twenties, and when I finally went, I felt completely out of place — people two-stepping, scanning the room, performing rather than dancing. It made me feel awkward in a way that honestly still exists. Going out has always been more about the music than anything else for me. Meeting people on the dance floor is still a growth edge I'm figuring out.
That night in Thailand — the guy in the red hoodie — that was my first real encounter with ecstatic dance. And it sent me on a path I'm still walking.
What I've come to love about it is that nobody tells you what you're going to get out of the space. I hold the container, and you meet yourself inside it.
Maybe that's the joyful parts.
Maybe the lonely parts.
Some of you have come back time after time, challenged by it every single time, and kept showing up anyway — because you know there's something there for you. I find that quietly beautiful.
And learning to DJ this — to build music that moves people through joy, darkness, strangeness, release — has become one of the things I care about most. Getting to hold that space for our community in Amsterdam is a genuine honour.