Dance has helped me overcome a lot of personal challenges. If I

Remo D’Souza once proclaimed with the passion of an artist and the honesty of a man who has known struggle: “Dance has helped me overcome a lot of personal challenges. If I feel sad or depressed, I just go to the set and dance. It makes me feel alive.” In these words, he reveals a truth that spans across all civilizations—that art, when embraced with devotion, can become both shield and weapon, both healer and guide. His words are not merely about movement of the body, but about the liberation of the soul.

The power of dance lies in its ancient roots. Before language, there was rhythm; before speech, there was movement. Our ancestors stamped their feet around fires, swayed to the beat of drums, and raised their arms to the heavens in rituals of gratitude, grief, and war. In every culture, dance was a way to transform the invisible into the visible—to release sorrow, to celebrate victory, to connect with the divine. Remo speaks from this same lineage: when the heart is heavy, it is through movement that the spirit finds release.

His words also reflect the timeless struggle of sadness and depression. These shadows weigh upon the soul, making the body feel like a prison. Yet in the act of dancing, the prison door swings open. The body, once burdened, becomes light; the spirit, once drowned, begins to breathe again. This is why he says it makes him feel alive—for in dance, he reconnects to the rhythm of life itself, a rhythm that sorrow cannot silence.

History offers many mirrors to this truth. Consider Isadora Duncan, the mother of modern dance, who broke free from rigid forms to let her body move with pure expression. She too believed that dance was not mere performance but a force of freedom, one that could channel grief and joy alike. Or recall the warriors of ancient Africa, who prepared for battle with fierce dances, shaking off fear and igniting courage. In both, as in Remo’s testimony, dance became not entertainment, but survival.

The deeper meaning of his words is that every person must find their medium of liberation. For Remo, it is dance; for others, it may be song, painting, running, or prayer. The essence remains: when the storms of the heart threaten to drown us, we must act, not retreat. Motion is medicine, creation is healing, and to engage with our passion is to remind ourselves that life, though heavy, still flows with beauty and rhythm.

The lesson for us is this: do not allow despair to freeze you. When you feel sad or depressed, seek your rhythm. It may be in music, in movement, in writing, or in quiet labor—but do it with your whole being. By acting, by creating, by moving, you will find that the shadows lose their grip. Just as Remo turns to the set and dances, so must we step into our own “stage” and engage with life until it awakens within us again.

Practically, this means setting aside time to connect with whatever art or action revives your spirit. When darkness comes, do not lie still—stand, move, sing, breathe. Even the smallest step can shift the weight of sorrow. And if you do not yet know your medium, experiment until you find it, for every soul has a rhythm waiting to be discovered.

Thus, Remo D’Souza’s words shine as both testimony and teaching: “Dance… makes me feel alive.” In them we are reminded that life is not found only in thought, but in movement, in rhythm, in the courage to rise and express. May we too learn to meet our challenges not only with endurance, but with creativity—turning pain into art, sorrow into rhythm, and despair into the radiant joy of being alive.