That first afternoon it was just the two of us. We pushed the couch against the wall, opened the front windows a crack, and hit play on a playlist Emma had labeled "quiet bravery." We didn't talk much. We moved until the song ended, then sat on the floor and drank water like we'd run a race we hadn't trained for.

Word travels on Front Street. Elena Martinez asked if she could bring Maya Chen from the Kundalini nights she goes to in town. Evie Stone wandered in one Tuesday with a thermos of ginger tea and a folded mat under her arm. Jacob Torres texted to ask if "awkward beginners" were welcome; he showed up in running shorts and stayed for the whole set.

By the second week we were meeting Tuesday and Thursday evenings, usually around 7:05, when the light slants through the bay window and turns the wallpaper gold. There's a couch shoved against the wall, houseplants on the windowsill, and my cat perched in the armchair like a tiny critic. It is a living room, not a studio, and that is the point.

I don't teach. I don't correct. If anything, I offer prompts—"move like water," "try making that shape smaller," "what happens if you close your eyes?"—and then I let the room answer. It feels less like instruction and more like witness, like someone holding the door while you decide whether to step through.

My living room isn't a studio. There's a couch shoved against the wall, houseplants on the windowsill, my cat judging us from the armchair. But that's the beauty of it. —  Annie Walsh

We have slowly collected small comforts. A Bluetooth speaker that doesn't cut out mid-song. A citrus candle that sits on the mantel with the empty matchbox beside it. Elena brought a thick yoga mat for anyone who wants to work closer to the floor. Maya leaves a jar of pickled ginger on the coffee table, like we're all in on a private joke about refueling.

Some nights only two people show up. Some nights seven, and we bump into the side tables and laugh. On the nights when the radiators hiss a little too loudly, we just turn the music up and keep moving. The Victorian cottage doesn't ask us to be quiet; it asks us to be present.

Once, after we finished, Jacob sat on the floor and said, "I thought I'd be embarrassed." He looked around at the bent knees and flushed faces. "Turns out I just needed somewhere I didn't have to be good." I nodded because that was the whole thing, said aloud.

I get asked sometimes if I'll rent studio space or make it "official." The question always feels a little strange. This is official. It happens in a living room with scratched floors, a sofa that squeaks, and a bay window that witnesses everything. It is movement in the place where we actually live.

I still dance alone most mornings, sometimes in an old T-shirt, sometimes in pajamas, sometimes with a cup of coffee cooling on the radiator. But twice a week, the room fills with people I know by name, and we remember we have bodies worth listening to. In the Mid-Ohio Valley, where winter can tuck us inside, this is how we make warmth: we move together, imperfectly, and we keep the window open just enough to let the light in.