Before I learned to dance tango, I thought intimacy was something you protected. Now I know… it’s something you share.

It started with wine and a wild idea: what if we all learned tango? Real tango. The kind with smoky eyes, silent tension, and breath held just a second too long.

We were ten couples - close friends, curious and restless. One of us joked, “Tango is vertical sex!” Which, of course, made it irresistible. So we said yes. We hired instructors, took weekly classes, practiced until our feet ached. We tried to master ochos, sacadas, giros…

We thought we were learning a skill. But tango isn’t something you master. It’s something that happens to you.

I never became good at it.

And yet… something happened. Something far more beautiful than mastery.

Years later, I found myself at a workshop in Christiania. Our teacher was Morten - a character-dancer from the Royal Theatre. He didn’t come to teach the steps. He came to teach presence.

He told us, “It demands trust - or at least the idea of trust - just like in a relationship.” And I knew exactly what he meant. The moment you surrender to another person, something shifts. You have to listen .... to their breath, to their hesitation, to their readiness. To sense where the other is. Sometimes it’s smooth. Sometimes there is friction. But that’s the point. You don’t dominate. You tune in.

“In dance,” he continued, “we learn to mirror… and maybe stop offering something all the time. Just like in conversation: some people fill the room, talk-talk-talk, but sometimes something incredibly exciting happens when you don’t. When you give the other person a chance. And then they can unfold, tap you on the shoulder, caress your cheek, or ask you questions, revealing what they enjoy, so you can return it. And suddenly, you find yourself in a thrilling dialogue.”

That line stayed with me. Not just for tango, but for life. When you stop performing, something real unfolds.

I remember dancing with him. Morten. His embrace wasn’t demanding. It waited. It listened. His lead didn’t push. It invited. He showed me that tango isn’t a performance. It’s a conversation without words.

And in that embrace, I realized I had been protecting something. I used to hate changing partners. I didn’t want to share that sensual intimacy with anyone but Tom. But something softened. I became curious. What would it be like to feel another person’s rhythm, their breath, the unspoken language of their presence?

Morten asked us to close our eyes. “We live too much in our heads,” he said. “Let go of control. Come down into feeling. That’s why people come to dance. Not for steps, but for this lifelong training in letting go. In simply receiving what the world wants to give you. Feeling it. Sensing it. There’s something beautiful in this non-verbal language - away from the head, away from words, deep within the body’s own natural expression.”

And later that night, I danced with Tom again. Something was different. I wasn’t protecting anything anymore. I was simply there, listening. And so was he. We moved without thinking. No steps. No roles. Just breath and trust. And in those minutes, I sensed something primal: the way a woman responds to a man who truly listens. Deeply. Physically. Quietly. Entirely.

“Tango is a secret, non-verbal language,” Morten said. “You tune in constantly: Are we together? Are we still on the same path? You must give each other time and space.”

The man leads, yes. But more importantly, he listens. He learns to walk the caminada, to guide the woman gently through the room, walking through her, through her center. Then he becomes a true milonguero.

Every woman loves being in the arms of a man who listens and senses her. She can envelop him, smell his cologne, the trace of coffee still on his breath, feel the heat of his skin. There is enormous sensuality in that. And then she can go home… alone… profoundly moved.”

It’s the same in life.
To connect, you don’t need the right steps.
You need to feel first.
To offer space.
To walk with someone.
And sometimes… to let the other person unfold without interruption.

I never became a great dancer.
But I became a better feeler.
To listen with my body.
To move without needing to lead.
To feel before I act.

And perhaps that’s what real connection is?
Not to impress. Not to win. Just to meet.