Tapping

featured in Letting Grief Speak by Diane Zinna

This essay is a small part of a magnificent book, Letting Grief Speak- Writing Portals for Life After Loss. This essay was written in response to one of Diane’s prompts featured in the book. “Other People’s Advice”

I hope you consider ordering it. The book is officially out in the world July 21, 2026 (Links at the end of the essay.)

Tapping

The room is crowded, filled with fluorescent light and spray tans. A Frank Sinatra foxtrot plays in the background, then another, and then another. Everyone looks bored and beautiful. These are professional ballroom dancers in their off time. Most wear their Fred Astaire tracksuits, and all have their names embroidered under where it says professional.

The tracksuits are almost $300, and I am not wearing one.

I have my nails done—it’s required now, but I have convinced my boss that I am allergic to spray tans.

My skin is blue, and sometimes green in the studio lights. I am an unhealthy mermaid.

We are at a training session. I am sitting next to the man that I haven’t realized I am in love with, and he hasn’t realized he is in love with me yet either. We passed notes. We roll our eyes. We listen to the brainwashing techniques of the corporate dance world. All the things we have to do to earn our pay, like earning an allowance. We don’t ask why; we just do them. We just smile.

At home there is a man I am still married too. He punched a hole in the wall a few nights before, and I thought I could hear the echoes of our fighting; the echoes of his jealousy; the echoes of his lies; and all my tears come out of that hole.

Maybe I did.

There is a woman at the front of the room, she is at least 5’10 and has abnormally large hands and an overly expressive face.

It’s just past 8am and we drove three hours through lake-effect snow to be here. She has glitter eyeshadow and she walked by the table of bagels and donuts without giving it a glance. She is thin, beautiful, terrifying, and cold in her perfection.

I am too old to be a dancer. I am too fat to be a dancer, and maybe I should have skipped all this, but then I would have been home trying to figure out a way to crawl into the hole in our wall— crawl into the echoes.

The beautiful scarecrow is talking about self-esteem, how we as artists are all filled with self-doubt; we doubt our talent; we doubt our beauty; we doubt our ability to teach.

When I look around the other professionals have doe eyes and their skin is glittery on their cheeks, glittery on their eyes, glittery on their prominent dancer collarbones.

They look ready for the stage.

I am in a messy bun, and I forgot to wear glitter makeup. I didn’t know it was expected. Not at 8am certainly.

“Who here has felt terrible about themselves?”

We all raised our hands, even the national champion four seats away from me. She was on So You Think You Can Dance.

She didn’t eat any donuts either.

I lick my lips and they are sweet and powdery. I have fingerprints of sugar on my pants like little sweet ghosts.

“Everyone with your hand up, I want you to take that hand and start to tap gently on your forehead, right between your eyes.” Tap tap tap.

We do this because we are told.

The man I am not yet in love with laughs, and I can barely keep it together.

“I want you all to keep tapping and say, “Even though sometimes I doubt myself I am worthy.”

We do it, we all do it. I whispered it, my voice still half trapped in my wall at home.

The scarecrow moves her hand to her cheekbone, and she keeps tapping.

We all know how to follow choreography, so our hands move too.

“Now say, even though I have doubts about my talent, I know that I am worthy”

We say it.

The man I am not yet in love with pretends to poke himself in the eye. It’s my biggest fear. My heart starts to go faster, and I am not sure why, but my eyes start to fill with tears, maybe it’s just laughter, I am not sure.

The scarecrow has long purple fingernails, the skin on her chest is taught, and tan. She starts to tap her chest.

“Even though I wake up afraid, I know I am strong inside.”

We repeat it.

One of my dance friends is openly sobbing three seats away. I feel sick now. Anxious.

I hate what is happening under these fluorescent lights, but I tap anyway. I tap my bluish green skin. My chest sounds hollow. Is it hollow? I worry that if I tap too hard, I will break though, like a fist through a wall.

The scarecrow lifts her right arm and starts to tap under her armpit.

I am laughing now but tears are rolling down my face. The laughter is a good way to cover up whatever this is. Whatever reason is causing my face to be wet.

“Even though I do not feel like I am deserving of love…”

I don’t hear what she says next.

The man I am not yet in love with is up and getting more donuts.

The girl three seats down from me is still crying, and somehow, I have found a way to crawl into the wall in my house.

I am there with the echoes, part of me knows I will never get out, I am there now, so I tap tap tap.

Where to order Letting Grief Speak - Writing Portals for Life After Loss

Amazon
https://a.co/d/0dstsJGv

Columbia University Press
(Discount Code CUP20 for 20% off)
https://cup.columbia.edu/book/letting-grief-speak/9780231212694/

Bookshop.org (Supports Local Booksellers!)

https://bookshop.org/p/books/letting-grief-speak-writing-portals-for-life-after-loss-diane-zinna/8f459e80d5ae6fc1?ean=9780231212694&bkshp-astro=t