Have you ever asked yourself: What is the purpose of dance?
Not why do I like dancing, or what do I get out of it, but—at its core—why does dance exist?

It’s a huge question. A meta question. And recently, something shifted in how I understand it. After years of teaching, dancing, and building the Movement Lab community, a deeper clarity has begun to emerge for me.

Let me take you there.

The Individualistic Story

When I ask my students why they dance, the answers often orbit the same constellation: to feel more at home in my body, to express myself, to heal, to grow. Dance as self-development. Dance as therapy. Dance as empowerment.

These are beautiful reasons. They reflect real transformation. And I can relate—my own journey into dance was driven by self-discovery. I wanted to find my voice, to connect to my passion, to express what I couldn’t say with words.

Dance is as ancient as humanity itself. And that makes one wonder: is the story we tell today—the one about self-expression and personal growth—the whole story? Or just a modern version of it?

A Shift in Perspective

If we look at dance through an evolutionary lens, things start to look strange. Why would our ancestors—living in conditions where survival was a constant struggle—burn precious calories just to move their bodies rhythmically?

Calories were life. To hunt, you had to spend energy before you gained any. Every movement mattered. In such a world, dancing seems almost absurd.

Unless—dance wasn’t about the individual at all.

Dance as Social Technology

I’ve come to see dance as something more ancient, more collective: a social technology. A tool our species developed not for personal expression, but for group cohesion. To strengthen the ties that held early human communities together.

There’s research to support this. Studies show that synchronized movement—like dancing together in rhythm—boosts endorphins, increases pain thresholds, and fosters feelings of social closeness. Shared touch and rhythm can trigger oxytocin release, the hormone of trust and bonding.

Dance helped people feel together. It made the group stronger.

That’s why we see dance at the heart of rituals across time and culture: Indigenous ceremonies, Sufi whirling, trance dances, war dances, fertility rites, raves. Wherever there’s a group needing to connect, you’ll find the body in motion.

The Second Purpose: The Transcendent

But there’s something else dance can do. It doesn’t just bond us—it can also open us.

Dance can serve as a portal to something greater than ourselves. It can alter consciousness, blur boundaries between self and other, invite mystery. Whether you call it God, nature, spirit, oneness, or flow—it’s real.

This is where dance brushes against mysticism. The Sufi dervish spins not to perform, but to dissolve. In the rave, we melt into a group body. And in contemporary dance, we transform technique into presence—presence that guides and expands attention, blurring the boundary between performer and audience.

The real alchemy of dance happens when connection and transcendence meet. We gather together, we begin to move, and something opens. The room shifts. Time stretches. The individual softens. And for a moment, we remember: we belong.

Dance as Sacrifice

Here’s the word that changed everything for me: sacrifice.

To understand the connection between dance and sacrifice, we have to start with something fundamental—energy.

Life runs on energy. Every living organism, from the smallest microbe to the most complex mammal, survives by acquiring and managing energy. And for us humans, that energy comes in the form of calories.

Calories are not just a dietary number—they are the basic unit of life’s currency. Every movement we make, every thought we process, every breath we take burns through this resource. And for the vast majority of human history, calories were hard-earned and limited. Before agriculture, before food storage, before supermarkets, you had to spend energy to gain energy: to hunt, gather, prepare, and protect your food.

So when we imagine our ancestors dancing—moving rhythmically for long periods, with no immediate return—it raises a serious question: Why would anyone willingly waste energy like that?

The answer is: it wasn’t a waste. Dance was never about individual survival—it was about group survival.

Because what dance does—what it has always done—is bind people together. It creates cohesion, strengthens trust, aligns emotion, intention, and action. Dance was (and still is) one of the most powerful tools we have for syncing bodies, minds, and hearts. And in a world where surviving alone was nearly impossible, the strength of the group was the strength of the individual.

To dance, then, was to invest energy into the collective. It was to burn calories not for immediate physical gain, but to nourish the bonds that made group life possible. Dance was—and still is—a sacrificial offering of energy toward something larger than oneself.

And sacrifice, in this sense, isn’t grim or obligatory. It’s hopeful. It’s generous. It says: I believe in this group. I believe in this moment. I’m willing to give myself to it, even if I don’t know what I’ll get back.

In that spirit, dance becomes more than movement—it becomes devotion. It becomes ritual. It becomes the embodied act of saying: We are stronger together.

Reclaiming the Spirit of Dance

Modern dance spaces—whether they’re classes, jams, or performances—often exist within a consumer culture. We pay for access. We expect returns. We treat movement as a service: something we use to feel better, look better, or achieve something.

But dance didn’t begin this way. And even within these systems, it’s still possible to reclaim dance as a sacred offering.

In Movement Lab, I’ve seen it happen. In creative processes, when dancers leap into the unknown, willing to commit their energy with no guarantee of the outcome. In jams, when people show up not to consume an experience, but to co-create it. When that spirit of sacrifice is present, the room becomes more than a room. It becomes a vessel.

A Memory in Our Cells

Most of us don’t live in tribes. We don’t rely on our neighbors for survival. The social fabric that once made dance essential has frayed.

But the memory remains.

It’s in our cells.

In that feeling when you hear an inspiring song and your body starts moving before your mind catches up.

In the deep exhale when you find yourself in sync with another person.

In the magic that unveils when imagination and reality converge on stage.

Dance reminds us of something we didn’t know we forgot.

Why Should We Sacrifice?

Because in doing so, we touch what might missing in our lives:  Connection. Belonging. Presence.

We don’t need to sacrifice because someone told us to. We sacrifice because we hope. Because we believe that through giving, something beautiful will arise.

And sometimes, it does.

Let’s dance together. Let’s remember.