Dance You Outta My Head

Scrolling through TikTok one day, times of which (thankfully) have become fewer and farther between, I happened upon a stitch of a video with a very, VERY catchy beat. Pausing to listen, the screen had words pasted over the video: in jest the words described that a young woman was dying of stage four cancer and she had written, sung, and produced this absolute bop. The proceeds of her music have now been prepared to go to her young son when she passes away. A bizarre feeling washed over me, or rather, a mixture of feelings. Joy bounced between the walls of my soul as I kept listening to this tune, but simultaneously, the information I’d just ingested made me feel deep sorrow. How is it that joy and sorrow can so perfectly co-exist, and yet feel so polarizing within the body?

I spent the next several minutes looking at Cat Janice’s profile. Video after video I watched, looking at the woman’s life. Vibrant smiles wore her face well, not the other way around. A true, striking beauty for the ages. Her videos showcased her talent and music. Meticulous, she worked in tune, in the flow of all that is. She and I both share the blessing of the creator, losing ourselves in the ocean of creation. Spellbinding and captivating, Cat Janice is a true artist. After looking at more recent videos I realize she was recently bald; a side effect of the chemotherapy. I, too, am bald but by choice. It got me thinking a lot about my own life and how our lives mirror each other.

Cat has a young son; I have two. Both sets of boys need a mother, but only two of the three boys will grow up with one, presumably. I don’t know the woman’s age, but I would be willing to bet she’s younger than I am at 35. In many ways, I feel like my life is just beginning. To see that she’s just been married and should have had many anniversaries ahead of her, while I’m about to celebrate 15 years with the love of my life feels almost egregious. I always come back to the ‘why?’

The notion of mortality and the existentialism of knowing death will come for us all has always fascinated and terrified humanity. I am no exception to this rule. Why some of us must endure a measure of suffering more than others is unknown, but unconscionable. The question of why some have their lives cut short creates an aching in the chest upon too much contemplation. In this moment I wonder, do we ever get used to it? Should we? Does acclimating to death mean we are steeped in apathy by it, or does it mean that we have cultivated a depth of compassion for ourselves and for humankind that we barely understand?

On January 19th when Dance You Outta My Head released, I listened to it on repeat. Even when I wasn't listening, it played on my phone over and over. If anyone deserves to be taken care of in this world, it’s a child losing his mother. If anyone deserves to see her dreams come into fruition before her eyes before she goes, it’s a mother who loves and pours herself into her passions, into love itself.

After listening, I found myself shifting from this grief for her and her son and my own grief for myself and the unknown of the future to this space of pure love. The song itself moved me, doing precisely what it was designed to. Opening Safari and traveling to Amazon, I quickly bought a treadmill that you can place under a work desk for when my typewriter is operational. For months I’d been contemplating this set up so I could write and move simultaneously, since I don’t get enough exercise in my routine. Then I thought, why wait? If nothing else, this experience has taught me to act now and not overthink. Several days since then I’ve walked on the treadmill, listening to Dance You Outta My Head. Not sulking inside my own mind, not contemplating death or life, but immersing myself in the music, in the present moment. Spilling all of myself out into the only moment we can truly seize; the one that is happening now.

After exploring Cat Janice’s full catalogue, I find myself really connecting with most of her songs. The stories of young love, the strife of it all not working out. The rhythms that force your hips into a full swing. I find myself immensely grateful for her music, and for the unintended lessons she has impressed upon my life in these last few weeks. Truth be told, I’m ecstatic for her to witness this rise to the top of the world before she exits in a whirlwind of admiration and love. I’ve adored music and been a singer since I was four, and if I could go out with my talents and passions making such a huge impact on this world full of lost, lonely people I’d feel so fulfilled, as though a huge part of my purpose here had been achieved. Cat’s existence matters. To many more people than she could now even fathom. Although, it always mattered; especially to those who love her most. To go out on top loved and held, I imagine, is everything.

Dance You Outta My Head means to me a liberation from rumination, freedom from the need to know what happens beyond this moment. Untethered joy, in spite of fear nipping at our heels. It means grounding in the now, dancing until we cannot dance anymore. A privilege so many of us take for granted.

Listening at this very moment to Dance You Outta My Head as I type, I’m peering out the front window watching the snow flurries collect on the tree limbs. I smile widely. Putting on my headphones, I look forward to letting go of everything burdensome in my life and sinking deeply into the movement of my waist to that sweet, rapturous beat. I need this. We all need this reprieve outside of ourselves now and then.

Thank you, Cat Janice, for taking the complicated and not making it easy, but making it more than bearable in the moment with your talent, spirit, and love.