Somewhere along the way, we stop dancing.

Not literally.
Although also literally.

I mean in the broader sense.

Kids don’t hesitate. A song comes on, they move. Badly. Loudly. Without rhythm. Without embarrassment. Without checking who’s watching.

Adults?
We tighten up.

We stand still.
We look around.
We calculate.
We assess how ridiculous we might look.

Somewhere between childhood and responsibility, we trade lightness for self-consciousness.

And we call it maturity.

Most of life doesn’t require intensity. It requires looseness.

I was reminded of this recently in the most unglamorous way.

I was in a foul mood.

Nothing catastrophic.
Nothing dramatic.
Just one of those days where everything feels slightly irritating. Emails felt sharper. Traffic felt slower. Noise felt louder. Expectations felt heavier.

You know the ones.

The day wasn’t objectively bad. I just wasn’t flexible.

And then, out of nowhere, music came on in the house.

One of the kids started doing that uncoordinated, half-feral, zero-shame dance that children specialise in. Arms everywhere. Knees too high. Full commitment.

My instinct was to stay serious.

I had things to think about.
Things to solve.
Things to carry.

Then I caught myself.

What exactly was I protecting?

My image?
My mood?
My invisible adult dignity?

There’s something deeply fragile about refusing to move because you’re trying to look composed.

So I joined in.

Badly.

No rhythm.
Zero credibility.
Maximum commitment.

And within about thirty seconds, something shifted.

Not in a motivational way.
Not in a cinematic, life-changing way.

Just enough.

Enough to remind me that most of what I treat as serious isn’t sacred. It’s habit.

Dance Mode isn’t about ignoring responsibility. It’s about refusing to let responsibility harden you.

There’s a version of adulthood that confuses seriousness with strength. The furrowed brow. The tight jaw. The permanent sense of importance.

Stoicism doesn’t require that.

Marcus Aurelius didn’t say, “Be rigid.”
He said, “Be steady.”

Those are not the same thing.

Steady means grounded.
Rigid means brittle.

Dance Mode is anti-brittle.

It’s the choice to stay flexible when your ego wants to stay composed.

It’s the reminder that you are allowed to laugh at yourself.

It’s the decision to not take every inconvenience personally.

It’s the ability to zoom out and see how absurd most of our stress actually is.

When you’re in Dance Mode, you don’t deny difficulty. You just don’t let it define your posture.

You don’t spiral over small mistakes.
You don’t rehearse arguments in your head.
You don’t narrate yourself as the main character in a tragedy because someone took your parking spot.

You loosen your grip.

And that looseness is strength.

Kids live in this mode naturally.

They fall. They cry. They recover.
They get embarrassed. They move on.
They don’t build identity around minor moments.

Adults?
We construct entire emotional narratives around things that won’t matter in three days.

Dance Mode interrupts that.

It asks one simple question:

Does this really require intensity?

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Most of the time, it’s no.

Most of the time, it requires perspective.

I’m not advocating chaos.
I’m not advocating recklessness.
I’m not saying ignore real problems.

I’m saying lighten up where you can.

You can carry responsibility and still move lightly.

You can lead and still laugh.

You can take your work seriously without taking yourself seriously.

There’s something powerful about a person who can be disciplined and playful at the same time.

That balance is hard-earned.

It’s easy to be chaotic.
It’s easy to be rigid.
It’s much harder to be steady and light.

Dance Mode is a reminder that life isn’t a courtroom. It’s not a constant performance review. It’s not a reputation management exercise.

It’s an experience.

And experiences are meant to be lived, not clenched.

If I look at the times I’ve handled life best, they weren’t the moments where I tightened up and doubled down on seriousness.

They were the moments where I zoomed out, smiled at the absurdity, and stayed flexible.

That doesn’t make you less competent.

It makes you less brittle.

So this week, if something feels heavier than it should, try it.

Switch to Dance Mode.

Move badly.
Laugh sooner.
Release the grip.
Lower the stakes in your own head.

You might be surprised how much strength lives in lightness.

If this gave you something to think about, feel free to forward it to someone who might appreciate it.
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Until next time,
Broden Johnson