I have been dancing for as long as I have known myself. My father taught me how—through music, through rhythm, through the simple insistence that the body knows. He is from Colombia. I grew up dancing with my family, in living rooms and gatherings, where movement was not performance but belonging. Before words, before thought, before story, movement carried me.

I learned early how to live between places. I cannot count how many elementary schools I attended; the geography of my childhood is a blur. Friends were temporary. Homes were provisional. I learned how to arrive and how to leave, how to listen before speaking, how to feel my way into unfamiliar rooms. That education still lives in my body.

I exist in the in-between—not only of place, but of identity. My last name is López, though I do not speak Spanish. My mother is Jewish, though lineage does not land cleanly in my hands. I do not hold enough of this or that to be legible. When people try to guess where I am from, the answers multiply. I am everywhere and nowhere. I belong, and I do not. This is not a lack—it is a location.

I live in the spaces between softness and speed, in the folds of weight and release, in the negotiation between what is urgent and what is still. In these spaces, the body speaks, listens, remembers. I am drawn to sensation as architecture—how one moment becomes the next, how the body responds to itself, to others, to the world it inhabits. I attend to texture, rhythm, and effort, to the quiet shifts that carry intention. Each motion holds a paradox: firmness in vulnerability, clarity in surrender, energy in quietude.

There is reverence here—for the senses, for what cannot be named, for the poetry of the ordinary. This is a space of noticing, of breath, of availability. To enter it is to arrive fully in the body, to feel gravity and freedom at once, to let the body and heart speak together. This is where I reside.