There are certain songs that make me want to move before I even think about dancing. Mariana’s “Kol Ma Bashoufak” is one of those songs for me.

There is something incredibly cinematic about it. The melody carries a softness that feels almost nostalgic, even when I cannot fully explain what I am feeling. There is longing in it, but not the kind that feels heavy. It feels delicate, intimate, and a little mysterious — like seeing someone from across the room and suddenly becoming aware of your own heartbeat.

That feeling is what inspired this dance.

When I dance to this song, I find myself paying a lot of attention to the hips. Hip movements are such a fundamental part of belly dance, but I never think of them as “just basics.” The more I dance, the more I realize how much expression can exist inside a movement that looks simple.

A hip drop, a hip lift, a circle, a figure eight, a subtle shift of weight — each one can have a completely different feeling depending on the timing, the texture, the direction, and the music. The movement itself may be familiar, but the way it feels in the body can always change.

That is also why I love putting fundamental hip movements into combinations.

Repeating the same movement over and over can sometimes make the body feel disconnected from the music. But when those movements become part of a combo, something changes. A simple hip movement suddenly has somewhere to go. It connects with a transition, answers a rhythm, creates a pause, or becomes the accent of a musical phrase.

The body starts listening differently.

Instead of thinking about each individual movement, I can begin to feel the relationship between them. One movement leads naturally into another. The hips follow the rhythm, the upper body responds, and the entire combination starts to breathe with the music.

For me, this is where the beauty of repetition really begins.

At first, a movement may feel unfamiliar. I might have to think about where the weight is, how much energy to use, how to keep the movement clean, or how to make it feel effortless. But after repeating it enough times, something changes. The body remembers what the mind once had to think about.

And then, the movement becomes familiar.

Not boring. Not automatic.

Familiar in the best possible way — like returning to a place you have been before and suddenly noticing something you never saw the first time.

I think emotions can work in much the same way.

Sometimes we experience a feeling before we know what to call it. A certain person appears, a certain song starts playing, or a certain moment stays in our mind a little longer than it should. At first, the feeling seems unfamiliar. We don't know whether it is attraction, curiosity, longing, nostalgia, or simply the beauty of a moment.

Then, somehow, we experience it again.

And again.

Until one day, it no longer feels unfamiliar.

It feels like something we have always known.

That is what this song feels like to me.

“Kol Ma Bashoufak” carries the feeling of seeing someone and having that little spark return — not necessarily louder, but deeper. The kind of feeling that doesn't need to announce itself. It simply appears in the smallest details: a glance, a pause, a breath, a change in rhythm.

And maybe that is why the hips feel so natural with this music.

There is something beautiful about letting a basic movement become emotional. A simple hip accent can suddenly feel like a heartbeat. A slow circle can feel like hesitation. A change of direction can feel like turning toward someone. A pause can say more than a whole sequence of movements.

Dance doesn't always need to be complicated to be expressive.

Sometimes, the most familiar movements become the most meaningful ones when we give them the right music, the right timing, and enough space to breathe.

So I keep returning to the basics.

I repeat them. I connect them. I play with them. I let them become part of combinations until I no longer have to think about every detail.

And somewhere along the way, something beautiful happens.

The movement that once felt unfamiliar becomes familiar.

The rhythm that once felt distant becomes something my body understands.

And perhaps a feeling that I couldn't quite name becomes something I can finally recognize.

Maybe that is what dancing is for me — not simply learning how to move, but discovering how a movement can make an unfamiliar feeling feel like home.

Turning the unfamiliar heart into a familiar rhythm.

Or simply:

Turning an unfamiliar feeling into something familiar.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Mariana - Kol Ma Bashoufak

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Remember, never forget how to pursue happiness.

Sometimes, happiness is not something we find. Sometimes, it is something we remember how to feel.

There is something deeply powerful about a woman reconnecting with her own body. Not for someone else’s approval. Not to fit into a certain image. Not to become someone she thinks she should be. Simply to feel alive, feminine, confident, and free.

This is one of the reasons belly dance continues to captivate women around the world.

Belly dance is more than movement. It is a language of the body—one that allows softness and strength to exist at the same time. Every circle, accent, sway, and vibration can become a reminder that the body is not something to hide. It is something to experience, celebrate, and enjoy.

Among the many movements associated with belly dance, Hagala and Shimmy carry a particularly irresistible energy.

Hagala has a playful, grounded, earthy quality. Its rhythmic character connects movement with the natural pulse of the body. There is something joyful and unapologetic about it. It does not ask a woman to be smaller, quieter, or more restrained. Instead, it invites her to take up space, to move with personality, and to embrace the pleasure of rhythm.

Then there is the Shimmy.

Fast, vibrant, hypnotic, and endlessly expressive, Shimmy can transform the entire feeling of a performance. The continuous vibration creates an unmistakable sense of energy, while the dancer remains present within the rhythm. It can look effortless from the outside, but its real beauty is the feeling it creates: alive, electric, and completely in the moment.

For women, movements like these can offer something that goes beyond appearance.

They encourage body awareness. They invite women to notice their posture, their breathing, their balance, their rhythm, and the subtle sensations within their own bodies. In a world that often teaches women to judge their bodies from the outside, belly dance offers another perspective: How does my body feel to me?

That question can change everything.

Instead of asking whether a body looks perfect, we begin to appreciate what it

can express. Instead of hiding movement, we allow movement to become celebration.

Instead of seeing femininity as something defined by others, we begin to discover our own version of it.

And perhaps that is where the real magic of belly dance lies.

It does not demand one particular kind of beauty. A woman can be soft or powerful, elegant or playful, mysterious or bold. She can express sensuality without needing to explain it. She can be graceful without becoming fragile. She can be feminine without giving away her strength.

Hagala brings a sense of grounded joy.

Shimmy brings energy and freedom.

Together, they remind us that femininity is not a fixed image. It is an experience.

There is also something wonderfully liberating about moving to music simply because it feels good. No performance needs to be perfect for the moment to matter. No movement needs to be validated by someone watching.

Sometimes, the greatest reward is simply feeling connected to yourself.

That connection can be especially meaningful in everyday life. Women carry countless responsibilities, expectations, relationships, and roles. It is easy to spend so much time taking care of everything else that we forget to check in with ourselves.

Belly dance creates a beautiful reminder:

You are allowed to enjoy your own body.
You are allowed to take up space.
You are allowed to feel beautiful.
You are allowed to move simply because you want to.
And you are allowed to pursue happiness.

Not the perfect version of happiness promised by the world, but the small, personal moments that make you feel present and alive—a favorite song, a beautiful rhythm, a movement that makes you smile, a moment when you stop thinking and simply feel.

Perhaps happiness is not always about finding something new.

Perhaps sometimes, it is about returning to something that has always been inside us.

The rhythm begins.

The body responds.

The hips move.

The shoulders vibrate.

And for a moment, everything becomes simple.

Remember, never forget how to pursue happiness.

Let Hagala remind you to find joy in your rhythm. Let Shimmy remind you of your energy.

And let belly dance remind you that femininity can be powerful, expressive, playful, and entirely your own.

Because the most beautiful movement is not necessarily the one that looks perfect.

It is the one that makes you feel alive.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: 蕭亞軒 - 愛的主打歌

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There’s something different in the air.

The warmth of summer seems to be fading into the distance, leaving behind a softer breeze, gentler light, and a feeling that something new is quietly beginning. Sometimes, we don’t need to know exactly what is coming. We simply feel that the story is moving forward.

And then the music begins.

With the first notes of Alan Menken’s Harvest Dance from Aladdin, the atmosphere changes. The melody carries a sense of movement, celebration, and wonder. It feels almost like stepping into another scene of a film — one filled with warm colors, golden light, distant landscapes, and stories waiting to unfold.

This time, the story is told through Oriental Dance.

There is something beautiful about the way Oriental Dance allows music to travel through the body. It is not only about movement itself, but about the relationship between rhythm, gesture, expression, and space. Every part of the body can become part of the story, and sometimes the smallest movement can say more than a dramatic one.

The hands are one of those details.

A gentle curve of the wrist, the opening of the fingers, a soft wave traveling through the arms — these movements can make the dance feel almost like a conversation. The hands do not simply follow the music. They add texture to it.

There are moments when the arms seem to float with the melody, and others when the fingers become more playful, delicate, or expressive. When combined with the music, these subtle gestures can create an atmosphere that feels both intimate and cinematic.

Then comes the movement of the hips.

The foundation of Oriental Dance is deeply connected to the body’s natural ability to shift, circle, pulse, and respond to rhythm. Hip movements can be grounded and earthy, yet they can also feel light and effortless. A simple hip accent, a controlled circle, or a gentle weight shift can completely change the character of a phrase.

What makes these movements fascinating is their contrast.

The upper body may remain soft and fluid while the hips create a clear rhythmic accent. The hands may tell one story while the lower body answers with another. The result is not simply a sequence of movements, but layers of rhythm happening at the same time.

That is where the magic begins.

When the music, the hands, the arms, and the hips come together, the dance starts to feel less like a collection of steps and more like a living scene.

And perhaps that is why Oriental Dance can be so captivating.

It has the ability to be both delicate and powerful, playful and mysterious, grounded and dreamlike. It can hold a rhythm in the body while leaving enough space for imagination.

With Harvest Dance playing in the background, this feeling becomes even more vivid.

The music brings a fairytale quality to the movement, while the dance gives the melody a physical form. One moment can feel like sunlight moving across an old landscape; the next can feel like a celebration somewhere far away, where the story continues long after the music begins.

There is no need to explain every movement.

Some things are better experienced.

Perhaps that is also what makes dance so special. It does not always need words to communicate a feeling. A change in direction, a turn of the wrist, a subtle shift of the hips, or a pause between two movements can leave an impression.

The body remembers what words sometimes cannot describe.

And as the melody continues, the question remains:

Where will it take us this time?

Perhaps somewhere unexpected.

Perhaps toward a new encounter.

Perhaps toward a landscape we have seen before, but never quite noticed in the same way.

Or perhaps the journey is not really about arriving anywhere at all.

Maybe it is simply about allowing ourselves to follow the rhythm for a while — to listen, to move, to breathe, and to see where the next moment leads.

There is something quietly beautiful about not knowing.

Every new chapter begins without revealing its ending. Every melody carries a possibility. Every dance creates a moment that exists only once, in that particular combination of music, movement, light, and feeling.

That is the beauty of Oriental Dance.

It can take something as simple as rhythm and turn it into atmosphere. It can transform movement into emotion, and emotion into a story.

So perhaps we don’t need to ask what comes next.

We can simply let the music play.

Let the hands follow its colors.

Let the hips find their rhythm.

Let the body move with the story.

And let the next chapter unfold in its own time.

After all, the best stories are often the ones we never saw coming.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Alan Menken - Harvest Dance(阿拉丁)

#凱西CATHY

凱西CATHY YouTube：https://www.youtube.com/c/CathyHsieh
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There Is No Right Choice in Life — Only the Choice You Learn to Make Your Own

There is no right choice in life.

There is only the choice you make, and the steps you take afterward to prove that it was the right one for you.

If it had not been for the days I spent at home during the pandemic, I might never have discovered that I could teach myself how to dance.

When the pandemic changed our lives, everything suddenly slowed down.

The freedom to go out was limited. Our familiar routines were disrupted, and so many things that once felt normal had to be put on hold.

Somehow, in the middle of all that uncertainty, I found belly dance.

At first, it was simply curiosity.

I was drawn to the music, the rhythm, and the beautiful way the body could express softness, strength, and emotion all at once.

So I started learning at home.

By myself.

There was no teacher beside me, no structured class, and no one telling me exactly what to do next.

There was just a mirror, some music, online videos, and a lot of repetition.

At the time, I had no idea that this little activity I picked up during the pandemic would eventually become such an important part of my life.

In the beginning, it was not easy.

My body did not always cooperate. My hips were stiff, my movements felt awkward, and the things that looked effortless on screen were surprisingly difficult when I tried them myself.

I would watch a dancer move so naturally and wonder, “How do they make it look so easy?”

Then I would try.

And fail.

And try again.

Some movements took countless repetitions before they finally started to feel natural.

There were days when I genuinely wondered if I would ever get them right.

But I was home, and I had time.

So I kept practicing.

If I could not do it today, I would try again tomorrow.

If it did not feel right, I would repeat it.

Without a teacher beside me, I had to observe, adjust, experiment, and find my own way of learning.

And somewhere along the way, I unlocked a part of myself I never knew I had:

I could actually teach myself how to dance.

It may not sound like a huge achievement, but for me, it was a meaningful discovery.

I realized that with enough time and patience, many things that once felt like “I can’t do this” could eventually become “I can.”

And that was how belly dance slowly transformed from something I did at home during the pandemic into something I genuinely loved.

Then I discovered something even more unexpected.

I felt beautiful when I danced.

Not because I had suddenly become perfect.

Not because I looked like another dancer.

And not because every movement was flawless.

I felt beautiful because, when the music started, I became fully present in my own body.

I listened to the rhythm.

I felt my breath.

I felt every movement.

And for those few minutes, I stopped worrying about how I looked from the outside.

I was not comparing myself to anyone.

I was not thinking about what I lacked.

I was simply dancing.

And I really liked the person I saw in those moments.

Maybe that is one of the most beautiful things about dance.

It does not necessarily turn you into someone else.

Sometimes, it simply helps you discover a beautiful part of yourself that was already there.

For this video, I chose “Ekhtayaraty” by Ahmed Saad.

The title carries the feeling of “my choices,” and that idea feels deeply connected to my own journey.

The pandemic forced me to stay home.

But during that time, I chose to open a video, turn on the music, and start practicing.

I had no idea where that choice would lead me.

I did not know if I would actually learn.

I did not know if I would keep dancing.

I only knew that I had chosen to begin.

And then, through every practice session that followed, I slowly gave that choice meaning.

Life has no preset choreography.

Sometimes, you only discover the direction after you turn.

Sometimes, we have to walk quite a distance before we understand how much a seemingly small decision has changed us.

Dance feels the same way.

You cannot know the entire choreography from the first step.

You learn one movement at a time.

You repeat it.

You make mistakes.

You adjust.

You keep going until, one day, your body remembers.

And eventually, a movement that once belonged to someone else becomes your own.

Maybe life works the same way.

We cannot always make the “right” choice at the beginning.

But we can give our choices time, effort, patience, and commitment — and slowly make them right for us.

So if you are standing at a crossroads in your own life, wondering whether you have chosen the right path, perhaps you do not need to know the answer yet.

Choose.

Then walk.

Let time prove it.

Let your actions answer for you.

Maybe what you are doing right now is only a small beginning.

Maybe you have no idea what it will become.

But if it is something that makes you want to come back again and again, something that brings you joy, something that allows you to see a version of yourself that you truly love — then maybe it is worth continuing.

For me, belly dance became exactly that.

It started as a small experiment during the pandemic and unexpectedly unlocked my ability to learn something entirely on my own.

Practice became progress.

Progress became confidence.

Confidence became enjoyment.

And enjoyment eventually became love.

This journey reminded me that life has no preset dance steps.

Sometimes, you only know the direction after you turn.

And that is okay.

If you chose the path, walk it fully.

Let every turn, every step forward, and every moment of uncertainty become part of the answer you are writing for yourself.

One day, when you look back, you may realize that the things you started without knowing why, the choices that seemed accidental, and even the things you once believed you could never do—

were quietly leading you closer to yourself all along.

And perhaps that is the most beautiful answer of all:

not becoming someone else,

but finally discovering who you are.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Ahmed Saad - Ekhtayaraty

#凱西CATHY

凱西CATHY YouTube：https://www.youtube.com/c/CathyHsieh
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The story is over. My heart just hasn’t caught up yet.

There are certain moments in life that stay with us long after they are gone. A conversation, a familiar place, a look in someone’s eyes, or simply a feeling we cannot quite explain. We may move on, change, grow, and continue with our lives, but sometimes a part of us remains quietly attached to a moment that no longer exists.

Perhaps that is what makes endings so difficult.

It is not always the loss itself. Sometimes, the hardest part is knowing that something has already ended while your heart is still living in the past.

This feeling comes to mind whenever I listen to Assala Nasri’s “Ghalban.” There is something deeply emotional about the song. Its Arabic melody carries longing, vulnerability, and a quiet kind of heartbreak. It does not feel like a dramatic cry for someone to come back. Instead, it feels more intimate, like a private conversation with a memory that refuses to disappear.

That is why the song feels so natural with Oriental dance.

Oriental dance, often known as belly dance, has a unique way of expressing emotions through movement. It does not always need big gestures or dramatic choreography. Sometimes, the smallest movement can say the most.

A slow movement of the hips can feel like longing. A soft curve through the torso can suggest vulnerability. The movement of the arms can create a sense of openness, while a sudden pause can feel like hesitation, remembrance, or even a moment when the heart simply cannot move forward.

There is something beautiful about watching emotion travel through the body.

We often try to explain our feelings with words. We say that we miss someone, that we are hurt, that we have moved on, or that we are finally letting go. But there are emotions that words cannot quite reach.

The body knows another language.

It remembers the feelings we thought we had forgotten. It holds tension, softness, hesitation, desire, sadness, confidence, and tenderness. When we dance, those feelings can surface without needing to be named.

This is what makes Oriental dance much more than a sequence of movements.

It can be a conversation between music and the body, between memory and the present moment. The rhythm gives the body a direction, while the melody creates an emotional landscape. Together, they allow something hidden inside us to become visible.

With “Ghalban” playing in the background, every movement seems to carry a little more meaning.

A turn can feel like looking back.

A slow step forward can feel like trying to leave something behind.

A pause can feel like the moment when we remember that we are not quite ready to let go.

And then the music continues.

That is perhaps the most important part.

The music does not stop simply because the heart is still holding on. The rhythm keeps moving, and eventually, the body has to move with it.

Maybe life is like that too.

We cannot stay forever in the moment when the story ended. We cannot return to exactly the same place, even if we remember every detail. Time keeps moving, whether we are ready or not.

But moving forward does not mean that we have to erase what happened.

We can remember without returning.

We can miss something without wanting it back.

We can carry a beautiful memory without allowing it to keep us trapped inside the past.

Perhaps healing is not about forgetting. Perhaps it is about changing our relationship with the memory.

What once felt like an open wound can eventually become a quiet part of our story. Something we can look back on with tenderness rather than pain. Something that reminds us that we once loved deeply, felt deeply, and were fully present in a particular chapter of our lives.

And maybe that is one of the quiet gifts of dance.

Dance gives emotions somewhere to go.

Instead of keeping everything inside, we let the body breathe through it. We allow the music to guide us through feelings that may have been difficult to express. We move with the sadness instead of fighting against it.

There is no need to rush.

A beautiful dance is not always about perfection or intensity. Sometimes, it is about the space between movements. The breath before a turn. The stillness after a gesture. The way the body slowly unfolds as the music changes.

Those small moments can say everything.

They remind us that softness can be powerful, that femininity can be expressive, and that vulnerability does not make us weak.

Oriental dance has a language of its own — one built on rhythm, musicality, curves, subtle details, and emotion. It can be sensual without being loud, graceful without being fragile, and powerful without needing to prove anything.

And perhaps that is why it speaks so beautifully to memories of love, longing, and letting go.

Because sometimes, the heart does not need an answer.

It simply needs a place to feel.

A place where the past can exist without controlling the present.

A place where sadness can become movement, and movement can slowly become freedom.

So when I hear “Ghalban” and watch the body move with its haunting melody, I do not think only about heartbreak.

I think about everything we carry with us.

The people we once loved. The moments we cannot repeat. The versions of ourselves that existed in another chapter. The things we wanted to say but never did.

And I think about how beautiful it is that even after a story ends, life continues to create new rhythms.

Maybe the heart takes longer than the mind to understand that something is over.

Maybe that is okay.

Maybe we are not supposed to forget the day that changed us.

Maybe we are simply meant to keep dancing until that memory no longer feels like a place we are trapped in, but a place we once visited.

The story may already be over.

The heart may still be catching up.

But with every breath, every movement, and every beat, we can choose to move again.

Not away from the past.

But forward, carrying everything it taught us.

Because sometimes, dance is not about escaping what we feel.

It is about finally allowing ourselves to feel it — and then letting the music show us the way forward.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Assala Nasri - Ghalban

#凱西CATHY

凱西CATHY YouTube：https://www.youtube.com/c/CathyHsieh
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