Someone took this picture of me—sweaty and happy at a Zumba Halloween masterclass over the weekend.
Here’s the backstory of why I became a Zumba instructor.
If you’ve read my memoir, These Broken Roads: Scammed and Vindicated, One Woman’s Story, or know my story, you know I unknowingly dated my scammer.
During that year-and-a-half relationship, we danced a lot. He was Latino and taught me salsa, merengue, bachata, and other fabulous dances. As a Jamaican woman, one of my favorites was reggaeton. We’d get lost in its infectious, syncopated beats, with their dancehall and Latin influences.
He introduced me to one of my favorite songs, “Travesuras” by Nicky Jam. It became our song—and our ringtone.
We’d dance around my living room until we were drenched in sweat. I remember driving to Connecticut with him and his sister, singing along at the top of our lungs.
Then the music stopped.
I learned that the relationship I believed we had was real only to me. He slept beside me for a year and a half, pretending to be the perfect mate while patiently waiting for the opportunity to steal almost $200,000 from me through a real estate scam.
After everything came to light, Spanish music didn’t bring me the same joy for a while. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard—grating and clawing at memories I was trying to bury. I wanted to cover my ears and run from anything that reminded me of him and what he’d done.
Then, about a year later, on a hot summer day in 2018, I was walking along Park Avenue when someone pulled up to a traffic light beside me with “Travesuras” blasting from his car.
I learned that the relationship I believed we had was real only to me. He slept beside me for a year and a half, pretending to be the perfect mate while patiently waiting for the opportunity to steal almost $200,000 from me through a real estate scam.
After everything came to light, Spanish music didn’t bring me the same joy for a while. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard—grating and clawing at memories I was trying to bury. I wanted to cover my ears and run from anything that reminded me of him and what he’d done.
Then, about a year later, on a hot summer day in 2018, I was walking along Park Avenue when someone pulled up to a traffic light beside me with “Travesuras” blasting from his car.
The song pulled me out of my fog of victimhood. I remembered how much I loved it—and realized I’d let a predator steal the joy it gave me.
I stood there on the sidewalk, frozen for a moment as the beat rolled over me. My body remembered what my heart had tried to forget: This was my joy first. It didn’t belong to him. It had never belonged to him.
I’d loved all things Latino long before I met him. I’d studied Spanish since high school and practiced every chance I got—much to the chagrin of some of my Spanish-speaking drivers. I love the people, food, culture, and music. I wasn’t going to let betrayal steal anything else.
By the time the light changed and the music faded as the car headed north on Park Avenue, something had shifted.
Weeks later, I became a certified Zumba instructor and immersed myself in the Latin sounds and rhythms I loved. Little by little, the music helped wash away the sting of those memories and brought back the joy of dancing. More than eight years later, dancing to Latin music remains one of my favorite ways to exercise, teach, and enjoy a wonderful community.
When that car pulled up with “Travesuras” blaring, I realized I could reclaim the music, the movement, and the pleasure of dancing without pretending I hadn’t been hurt.
There’s a saying: “I’ve survived too many storms to be bothered by raindrops.”
Think of a rainy day that caught you off guard. Water runs down your back and soaks your clothes. Your shoes get drenched; maybe your plans are ruined. We don’t have to pretend the downpour feels good. We can take shelter under awnings of frustration, anger, or annoyance—but we don’t have to put down roots there. We’ve weathered storms that threatened to take us under, and we made it through.
We’ll dry.
My Rockstars, life is going to happen—but not everything is a storm.
A driver cuts you off? Maybe that’s rain, not a storm. You’ll likely never see that person again. Keep it moving.
Someone talks about you behind your back? That may be rain, not a storm. Leave their words with them.
You have a fight with your spouse? Breathe and ask yourself: Is this a storm, or is it rain? Not to dismiss what you feel, but to give yourself a little perspective. You’ve overcome storms that made you wonder how you’d make it through. Yet here you are.
Sometimes healing starts with a voice that whispers, “You’ve made it through worse. You’ve got this.”
Maybe you have to put on your own cape and become your own superhero—reminding yourself of your strength, choosing what deserves your energy, and taking the next step.
Stop spending precious time on people and situations that are only chapters in your story—raindrops, not storms. Refocus your energy on what makes you wildly excited to be here.
For me, one of those things is standing in my Zumba class, rocking to the beat, sweating, shimmering, and loving the sounds that once brought sadness.
Not anymore.
My friends, be kind and patient with yourself. You’re a human being doing your human best on a floating rock in space and time—all while being a freaking Rockstar.
And please stop terrorizing yourself with worry over raindrops—you’re a storm chaser!
P.S. I sued my scammer—and won!
Grab a copy of my memoir.
Listen to me narrate my memoir on Audible.