For more than a decade, belly dance wasn’t just something I did—it was my life.

I performed professionally at weddings, private parties, corporate events, festivals, restaurants, and community celebrations. At one point, I was booked nearly every weekend for one performance or another. Along the way, I had opportunities I never could have imagined when I first began dancing. I appeared in a music video, participated in an online campaign commercial for Absolut Vodka, and was even dubbed “Boston’s Resident Snake Charmer” by The Boston Globe.

When I wasn’t performing, I was teaching. Four classes a week. Private lessons. Running a troupe. Producing events. Creating choreography. Organizing large theatrical productions that often took months of planning and preparation. My entire world revolved around dance.

Needless to say, belly dance was not a hobby—it was a lifestyle.

Then life changed.

After moving away from Boston and eventually relocating across the country, I tried to continue doing what I had always done. But after four major moves, changing priorities, and finding myself pulled in different directions, I gradually stepped away from performing altogether.

Many people have asked why.

The answer is complicated, but one reason stands above the rest.

For the majority of my dance career, I was known as a Snake Dancer—or as I prefer to call myself, a modern-day Snake Charmer.

My snakes were never props.

They were, and still are, part of my identity.

I performed with my own ball pythons, Burmese pythons, and boa constrictors. They traveled with me, trained with me, and became part of the artistic experience I created for audiences. While many dancers offered beautiful performances, I offered something different—a blend of belly dance, storytelling, mysticism, and the ancient symbolism of the serpent.

That uniqueness became my signature.

It was why people remembered me.

It was why people booked me.

Most importantly, it was what felt authentic.

The truth is, if I can’t perform with my snakes, I don’t really want to perform.

That realization took me years to accept.

When I was named Boston’s Resident Snake Charmer in 2005, it wasn’t just a catchy title—it became a reflection of who I was as an artist. My connection to snakes has always been deeply personal and deeply spiritual. Separating the snakes from the dance feels like separating a part of myself from the performance.

I miss the stage.

I miss the excitement of preparing for a show. I miss the music. I miss the anticipation before walking out in front of an audience. I especially miss performing at private events and connecting with people through movement and storytelling.

But I also believe in remaining true to myself.

If I am going to perform, I want it to be on my terms and in a way that feels authentic.

Another challenge has been finding community.

After moving through multiple states, I struggled to find the kind of dance family I once had in Boston. Boston gave me a supportive, creative environment where I felt at home. Since leaving, I have often felt like an outsider looking in.

Part of that is because I have always been my own brand.

I am not a traditional belly dancer. I never have been.

My style has always blended influences from multiple dance forms, theatrical performance, spirituality, mythology, and serpent symbolism. I have always been more of a fusion artist, creating something uniquely my own. While there is certainly a place for traditional dance, I often found myself feeling disconnected from communities that didn’t share my artistic vision.

And that’s okay.

Not every community is meant for us.

Sometimes we have to accept that we belong in our own lane.

At the same time, another calling was growing stronger in my life.

I am a practicing Witch and Vodouisant, and over the years my spiritual path demanded more of my attention. I found myself writing, teaching, studying, and becoming increasingly involved in my spiritual practices.

That path led me to teaching witchcraft, occult studies, divination, and spirit work.

To my surprise, it brought me a tremendous amount of joy.

I discovered that I loved teaching just as much as I loved performing.

Maybe even more.

It wasn’t until this year that I realized how much I missed teaching dance itself.

Not necessarily performing.

Teaching.

Creating choreography.

Watching students grow.

Helping women discover strengths they didn’t know they possessed.

Of all the things dance gave me, that may have been the greatest gift.

One of my most memorable moments as an instructor happened after a private group class. A woman approached me afterward with tears in her eyes and told me it was the first time she had ever felt beautiful in her own body.

I have never forgotten that moment.

That is why I teach.

Not for applause.

Not for recognition.

Not for titles.

I teach because dance changes people.

I have watched women walk into class feeling insecure, disconnected, and self-conscious, only to leave standing taller, smiling more, and embracing parts of themselves they had hidden away.

There is incredible power in that transformation.

Today, while I may no longer be performing professionally the way I once did, I am excited to return to what I love most: sharing my art.

This summer, I have the opportunity to bring my unique style of belly dance to a new group of students. I get to create choreography again. I get to teach. I get to help others discover confidence, strength, and joy through movement.

And perhaps that is exactly where I am meant to be right now.

I will always be a snake dancer.

I will always miss the stage.

I will always cherish the memories of the performances, the costumes, the productions, and the communities that shaped me.

But sometimes life asks us to evolve.

Sometimes we shed our skin and become something new.

For now, my focus is not on entertaining audiences.

It is on empowering others.

And honestly, that feels like its own kind of magic.