The Moment I Knew Dance Was My Lifeline.

As far back as I can remember, I was moving and grooving somehow.

I didn’t really know that dance classes were a thing back then—maybe because we didn’t have the money or maybe because I was just doing it in my room. But in 2005, my mother decided to enroll me in a dance studio. I was so excited, but also nervous, since I was getting heavily bullied for “acting gay.” I knew dance wasn’t going to make me the most macho kid.

I remember dancing to “99 Red Balloons” and cartwheeling out of the room after every class. When the big show day came, I was pumped—the hustle, the energy backstage, and that feeling of finally being seen and heard. But soon after, we moved away, or maybe we just didn’t have the money to stay, so we switched studios.

When I showed up at the new studio, I saw a guy with a belly piercing who seemed totally comfortable in his skin. I thought, I want that. But my dream was short-lived because the studio actually burned down soon after. Just my luck, right?

After that, I kind of gave up dance—not by choice, but because it wasn’t a priority for my family, and money was always tight.

Fast-forward to 2009, when I moved to a random suburb outside of Montréal. Thankfully, my new school had a dance program. It included jazz, a bit of ballet, and some lyrical or contemporary, depending on the day. The teacher was a bit stocky, rude, and she taught in a way that made me want to do the exact opposite when I started teaching dance.

She’d sit in her chair and bark out instructions, expecting us to be our best without actually showing us how. She’d make fun of students, including me, expecting greatness from us somehow. And to be fair, a lot of us did improve—her tough-love approach actually worked.

Through all of this, I didn’t feel like dance was my lifeline yet. Sure, when I was bullied, I’d freestyle in a field or dance on stage to feel free. When I started teaching, I saw the importance of coaching and mentorship. I had no idea what I was doing, just a freestyle dancer “sponsored by weed” with some ballet and jazz basics. But I could see how much confidence I was bringing out in my students.

Then, in 2009, there was a show run by our school board with talents from singing to acting to dancing. I auditioned, and not only did I make it, but I also became one of the top dancers immediately.

It was a beautiful moment—a real “rags to riches” story. The bullied kid finally had his moment to feel important. But even this wasn’t when dance became my lifeline.

That defining moment happened when I was backstage at this very show, getting my hair and makeup done. I had never been pampered before—I’d never even been to a barber or a dentist, let alone a makeup artist. Hearing the backstage crew ask, “Is Zach Dopson ready to go on stage?” felt unreal. For the first time, I felt like I was someone. It was as if all the neglect, anger, and hardships amounted to that very moment.

Sitting in front of a mirror surrounded by lights, with people fussing over my hair and makeup, I felt like I finally belonged in people’s eyes.

Yes, this blog is a bit about my dance history, but there’s so much more—both good and bad—that I’m leaving out. What I want to express is that while teaching and creating choreography is my passion, there’s something truly magical about being backstage before a show. It’s what we live for.

Dancing on stage is thrilling—it’s something every performer craves. But to this day, that moment back in 2009, when I was around 15, stands out. Since then, I’ve done bigger shows, some even televised, yet nothing has felt as significant as that moment. My family never cared much about my dancing, except when it suited them to boast. They never watched me dance at home or listened to the music I loved. So, when I say dance became my lifeline, I mean it. Dance was like a snorkel bringing me air when I felt I was underwater.

In that moment, I could breathe because people saw me for who I was, beyond the bullying and the judgment.

Whenever you feel lost on your path and wonder if it’s all worth it, think back to the first time you truly connected with your craft. Reflect on how much you’ve grown since then.

I’m not the same dancer or teacher I was 15 years ago. Yes, my classes are still full of love, fun, and that Zach Dopson energy, but I’ve evolved into a mentor. I strive to be as honest, bold, and open as possible, showing my students that with dedication, they can become someone they’re proud of in the future.