Have you ever felt that some beautiful things simply find us when we are not looking for them?

Perhaps it begins with something small.

A song playing quietly in the background.
A movement caught in the corner of your eye.
A moment when the world seems to slow down, just enough for you to notice something you might otherwise have missed.

For me, that feeling lives somewhere between music and movement.

The first notes of Nancy Ajram’s Bel Sodfa carry a certain warmth. There is something effortless in the rhythm, something playful and mysterious at the same time. It feels like a story that has no need to announce itself. It simply arrives.

And then the dance begins.

A turn of the body.
A soft movement of the shoulders.
The subtle rhythm of the hips.
The delicate movement of fabric following the music.

Nothing needs to be rushed.

Oriental dance has a way of making time feel different. It does not always ask to be understood immediately. Sometimes, it asks only to be felt.

Perhaps that is why it can be so captivating.

There is an old idea that beauty has to be grand to be memorable. But sometimes beauty is much quieter than that. It can be found in a fleeting glance, a passing melody, the movement of a veil, or the way a dancer pauses for half a second before moving again.

Those moments may seem insignificant.

Until they stay with you.

That is what I love about Oriental dance.

It is not simply about movement. It is about atmosphere. It is about the space between one gesture and the next. It is about rhythm, presence, softness, strength, mystery, and the freedom to let the body speak without needing to explain every word.

There is something deeply human about that.

We spend so much of our lives moving from one destination to another, always thinking about what comes next. Then, unexpectedly, music begins to play, and for a few minutes there is nowhere else to be.

Only the moment.

Only the rhythm.

Only the movement.

And perhaps that is where an unexpected kind of beauty begins.

Bel Sodfa carries the feeling of an encounter that was never planned. The kind of encounter that seems ordinary at first, but somehow leaves a trace behind. A melody becomes a memory. A movement becomes a feeling. A passing moment becomes a story.

Maybe that is what an unexpected encounter really means.

Not necessarily meeting someone.

Sometimes, it is meeting a different version of yourself.

A version that is more spontaneous. More expressive. More alive.

A version that remembers that beauty does not always have to be perfect. It only has to be sincere.

And when Oriental dance meets the right music, something almost cinematic happens. The rhythm becomes a language of its own. The body answers the music, and the music seems to answer back.

There is no need for a grand explanation.

There is only that quiet feeling:

Was this always meant to happen?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps it was simply coincidence.

But maybe the most beautiful things in life are precisely the things we never planned.

A song we happened to hear.

A dance we happened to see.

A moment we happened to capture.

A feeling we did not expect to have.

And suddenly, an ordinary day is no longer quite so ordinary.

So the next time you hear a melody that makes you stop for a moment, or see a movement that stays in your mind long after the music has ended, perhaps do not ask why.

Just let it happen.

Because sometimes, the most beautiful stories do not begin with a plan.

They begin with a feeling.

And sometimes, the most beautiful feeling is simply this:

Some beautiful things are meant to find us unexpectedly.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Nancy Ajram - Bel Sodfa

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Bloom freely in your own world, and let things unfold naturally in everyone else’s.

There is something deeply beautiful about belly dance. It is not simply a dance of movement, rhythm, or music. It is a conversation between the body and the soul—a way of expressing what words sometimes cannot.

Every gentle circle of the hips, every wave of the torso, every movement of the arms carries a different emotion. Sometimes it feels playful and radiant. Sometimes it feels mysterious and sensual. Sometimes, it is quiet, almost like a whisper. Through dance, we begin to discover that our bodies have their own language, and that language can tell stories about who we are, where we have been, and how we choose to move forward.

Belly dance invites us to slow down and truly feel.

In everyday life, we are often rushing toward something. We chase achievements, relationships, recognition, expectations, and sometimes even people who were never meant to stay. We become so focused on where we are going that we forget to notice where we are standing.

Dance brings us back to the present moment.

When the music begins, there is nothing to chase. There is only the rhythm, the breath, the movement, and the person we are becoming in that moment. We learn to listen to our bodies instead of constantly judging them. We learn that beauty does not have to be perfect, and movement does not have to be flawless to be meaningful.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts of belly dance: it teaches us to become comfortable in our own presence.

To dance is to take up space without apology. It is to allow ourselves to be seen without needing everyone's approval. It is to discover femininity not as something defined by others, but as something personal, powerful, soft, sensual, joyful, and entirely our own.

And as we dance, we may begin to understand something about life itself.

Not everything needs to be controlled.

Not every connection needs to be held onto.

Not every person needs to understand us.

Some things are meant to arrive. Some are meant to leave. Some stories continue, while others quietly become part of our memories. Life becomes lighter when we stop trying to force every moment to become what we imagined it should be.

This is where the beauty of letting go begins.

To let go does not mean giving up. It means trusting ourselves enough to know that we can continue moving, even when the path changes.

Just as a dancer follows the rhythm, life asks us to listen, respond, and adapt. Sometimes we move forward with confidence. Sometimes we pause. Sometimes we turn. Sometimes we simply sway with the music and allow the moment to be exactly what it is.

There is no single way to dance, just as there is no single way to live.

Your rhythm may be different from mine. Your journey may take you somewhere I have never been. And that is beautiful. We do not have to live inside someone else's rhythm.

In our own world, we can bloom freely.

We can explore our strength. We can embrace our softness. We can celebrate our femininity. We can move without asking permission to be who we are.

And in the worlds of others, we can learn to let things be.

We do not need to chase every person who walks away. We do not need to convince everyone of our worth. We do not need to force every relationship, every opportunity, or every moment to stay.

Sometimes, the most graceful movement is knowing when to release.

Belly dance reminds us that life is movement. Nothing stays completely still. Emotions change. People change. Seasons change. We change.

So dance through it.

Dance when you are happy. Dance when you are healing. Dance when you feel powerful. Dance when you simply want to feel alive.

Let your body speak. Let your heart breathe. Let the music carry away what no longer belongs to you.

And when the song ends, carry that feeling with you.

Walk through life with the same freedom you found in the dance.

Bloom in your own world. Move with your own rhythm. And in everyone else's world, let life unfold naturally.

Perhaps that is not only the beauty of belly dance.

Perhaps that is the beauty of living.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Nicole Saba - Karrart

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There is something strangely beautiful about snow.

It arrives quietly, transforms the world for a moment, and then disappears without asking permission. A snowman carries the same kind of beauty. It is playful, delicate, almost impossible to hold on to. You know from the beginning that it will not last forever.

Perhaps that is why the image feels so close to dance.

If I were a snowman, I’d hope you’d come before spring.

It sounds like a simple sentence, but underneath it lives a quiet longing: come while I am still here. Come before the warmth changes everything. Come before the shape I have taken in this moment disappears.

That feeling is at the heart of what makes Oriental dance so captivating.

Oriental dance is not only about movement. It is about what happens between movements—the breath before a gesture, the pause after a turn, the moment when the body seems to hesitate before surrendering to the music.

A hip can speak without a word.

A shoulder can suggest anticipation.

A slow undulation can feel like a memory returning.

A sudden stillness can say more than a dozen fast movements ever could.

This is where emotion becomes physical.

The body does not simply follow the music. It listens to it, responds to it, and sometimes seems to have a private conversation with it. Every movement can carry a different temperature. Some are warm and inviting. Others are distant, almost untouchable. Some feel like an invitation; others feel like a goodbye that was never spoken.

There is an intimacy in that language.

The softness of the arms can create the feeling of opening up. A controlled hip movement can carry confidence without becoming aggressive. A gentle chest lift can suggest pride, desire, or simply the feeling of breathing more deeply into the present moment. The smallest change in weight can alter the entire emotional atmosphere.

And then there is stillness.

Stillness is often underestimated because nothing appears to be happening. Yet in dance, stillness can be full of tension. It gives the audience a place to look, a moment to wonder, a reason to wait.

Sometimes the most powerful moment is not when the body moves, but when it stops.

That is especially true when the music carries a bittersweet quality. A song can sound delicate and beautiful while holding something darker underneath: the awareness that every beautiful moment has an ending.

This is where the snowman becomes more than a winter image.

It becomes a metaphor for vulnerability.

Something beautiful exists for a limited time. You can admire it, touch it, dance around it, but you cannot command it to stay. The warmth that gives life to one thing can make another thing disappear.

Perhaps love is like that too.

Perhaps desire is.

Perhaps even a moment on stage is.

You step into the music, and for a few minutes, everything is suspended. The body becomes the story. The breath becomes part of the rhythm. A glance can travel farther than a step. A curve can hold a memory. A slow movement can make time feel almost unreal.

Then the music ends.

The moment is gone.

But something remains.

That is the strange magic of dance. It does not need to last forever to become unforgettable.

Oriental dance has a particular ability to hold contrasts at the same time: softness and strength, mystery and openness, restraint and abandon, sensuality and elegance. The body can be grounded and weightless within the same phrase. It can appear completely confident while revealing something deeply vulnerable underneath.

This is why emotion matters so much.

Technique may create movement, but emotion gives that movement a reason to exist.

Without feeling, a beautiful line is only a shape.

With feeling, the same line can become a question.

A hip movement can become a heartbeat.

A turn can become longing.

A pause can become the moment before someone leaves.

And suddenly, the audience is no longer simply watching a dance. They are remembering something of their own.

Maybe that is what we are really drawn to in dance: not perfection, but recognition.

We recognize the feeling of waiting.

The feeling of wanting someone to arrive before it is too late.

The feeling of being seen for one brief moment.

The feeling of knowing that something beautiful may not stay.

So if I were a snowman, I would not ask you to stop spring.

I would only ask you to come before it.

Come while the snow is still falling.

Come while the night is still quiet.

Come while there is still time to dance.

Because some moments are not meant to be held forever.

They are meant to be felt deeply enough that, long after they disappear, you can still remember exactly how they moved through you.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Sia - Snowman

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The future is too far away. The past is already gone. How about now?

There are moments in life when we stop trying to understand where we have been or where we are going. We simply remain where we are, listening to the music, feeling our breath, and allowing the moment to unfold.

For me, that is where dance begins.

Oriental dance, often known as belly dance, is much more than movement. It is a conversation between music and the body, between emotion and silence, between what we feel and what words cannot quite express. And sometimes, the most beautiful thing about dancing is that nothing needs to be explained.

There is something timeless about an old Arabic song. Abdel Halim Hafez’s Ala Hesb Wedad carries the weight of longing, tenderness, love, and memory. Its melody does not rush. It seems to breathe. It gives every emotion enough space to exist.

When I dance to music like this, I do not feel the need to perform a story from beginning to end. Instead, I let the music lead me.

A turn can feel like a memory.

A slow arm can become a quiet invitation.

A pause can say more than a thousand words.

And a simple shift of the body can remind us that we are still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling deeply.

This is what I love about Oriental dance.

It teaches us to listen—not only to the music, but also to ourselves.

We live in a world that constantly asks us to move faster. We are encouraged to plan ahead, achieve more, become better, and keep moving toward the next destination. We spend so much time thinking about tomorrow that we sometimes forget to experience today.

Dance offers another way.

It asks us to slow down.

To feel the rhythm before following it.

To notice the space around us.

To become aware of our own body—not as something that needs to look a certain way, but as a place where life is happening.

There is no single shape that beauty has to take in Oriental dance. A dancer does not need to be perfect to be captivating. What makes a movement beautiful is often not its perfection, but its honesty.

A gesture becomes meaningful when it comes from somewhere real.

A smile becomes beautiful when it is felt.

A movement becomes unforgettable when it carries a piece of the person who is dancing.

Perhaps that is why dance can change the way we experience life.

When we learn to move with the music, we also begin to understand that life has its own rhythm. Some days are fast. Some are slow. Some moments ask us to move forward, while others ask us to pause.

We cannot control every rhythm, but we can learn how to move within it.

And perhaps that is a form of freedom.

Not forcing every moment to become what we want, but learning to meet each moment as it comes.

There is also something beautifully romantic about dancing.

Not because dance is about seduction, but because it allows us to be fully present. A glance, a breath, a turn, a subtle movement of the hands—these small things can create an entire language without a single sentence being spoken.

That is the language I find in Oriental dance.

It is soft, yet powerful.

Sensual, yet elegant.

Ancient, yet completely alive in the present moment.

And perhaps this is why I return to it.

Not simply to dance, but to remember how it feels to be alive.

The future is too far away.

The past is already gone.

How about now?

Maybe now is enough.

Maybe this song, this breath, this movement, this moment is enough.

So let the music play.

Let the body answer.

Let the heart remember what the mind has been too busy to notice.

You do not have to dance perfectly.

You only have to dance honestly.

Because somewhere between the rhythm and the silence, between one movement and the next, we may discover something that life so often makes us forget:

We are already here.

And this moment is worth feeling.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Abdel Halim Hafez - Ala Hesb Wedad

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Softness is the language of the body.
Wildness is the rhythm of the soul.
There is something almost instinctive about the way the body responds to music. Before we think about movement, the body already knows how to listen. A subtle roll of the hips, a gentle undulation through the torso, a sudden pause, or a sharp accent can become a quiet conversation between music and movement.

This is one of the things I love most about belly dance.

Belly dance, or Oriental dance, is often recognized through its flowing lines, intricate hip movements, delicate shimmies, and expressive use of the body. It carries a rich history and a distinctive movement language, but it is far from being a dance that has to remain inside one fixed definition.

Its beauty lies partly in its ability to adapt.

Belly dance can be soft and graceful. It can be sensual, playful, dramatic, powerful, mysterious, or completely unexpected. It can move naturally with traditional Middle Eastern music, but it can also find its own voice in contemporary pop, electronic music, Latin rhythms, cinematic soundtracks, and modern beats.

The music changes.
The mood changes.
The expression changes.

And yet, something essential remains.

The body still speaks through curves, isolations, accents, undulations, stillness, and rhythm.

That is what makes fusion so fascinating.

When belly dance meets a different musical world, it does not necessarily lose its identity. Instead, another side of the dance can emerge.

A traditional movement can suddenly feel modern against a contemporary beat. A soft arm movement can create contrast with a powerful bass line. A precise hip accent can answer a pop rhythm. A slow, controlled undulation can take on an entirely different emotion when surrounded by unexpected sounds.

The contrast creates its own kind of beauty.

This is especially true when the music carries a strong personality of its own.

With Shakira's Zoo, the atmosphere becomes playful, energetic, confident, and instinctive. There is something wild beneath the rhythm—something that feels untamed, expressive, and alive.

And that energy can become part of the dance.

The movement doesn't have to imitate the music literally. It can respond to it emotionally.

A beat can become a pulse.
A rhythm can become a sway.
A pause can become anticipation.
A movement can become an attitude.

Suddenly, belly dance is not simply following the music.

It is having a conversation with it.

This is why I believe belly dance has so much room to evolve. It does not have to choose between tradition and modernity. It can carry both.

It can respect its roots while embracing new sounds. It can remain connected to its origins while allowing new interpretations to emerge. It can be influenced by other dance forms without becoming a copy of them.

There is freedom in that.

And perhaps that freedom is one of the most beautiful things about the dance.

Belly dance is sometimes reduced to a particular image: flowing costumes, sensual movements, beautiful music, and a certain aesthetic. But beneath the visual beauty is something much deeper—the relationship between the body and its own sense of rhythm.

The dance allows the body to be both soft and strong.

It can be feminine without being fragile.
Sensual without being forced.
Powerful without becoming rigid.
Elegant without losing its wildness.
There is no need to choose one over the other.

Softness and strength can exist in the same movement.

Control and freedom can live in the same body.

Grace and instinct can share the same moment.

Perhaps this is why dance can feel so liberating.

When the right music begins, we stop trying to make the body look a certain way. Instead, we begin to listen—to the rhythm, to the breath, to the space between the beats.

The movement becomes less about appearance and more about expression.

And somewhere in that process, something begins to awaken.

Not something new.

Something that was already there.

A part of ourselves that is instinctive, expressive, playful, sensual, and completely alive.

This is the side of belly dance that I hope more people will discover.

It is not a rigid form that belongs to one era or one musical style. It is a living art form—one that can absorb new influences, explore different sounds, and create unexpected connections while still maintaining its own character.

It can be traditional.

It can be contemporary.

It can be delicate.

It can be fierce.

It can be mysterious.

It can be joyful.

It can be wild.

And sometimes, it can be all of these things at once.

That is the magic of movement.

You don't always have to explain it.

Sometimes, you simply let the music enter, let the body respond, and allow the movement to become whatever it needs to become.

A curve becomes a feeling.

A vibration becomes a heartbeat.

A pause becomes a breath.

And a dance becomes a moment of freedom.

Perhaps real beauty is not about trying to create an image of perfection.

Perhaps it is what happens when we stop holding ourselves back.

When we allow the body to speak.

When we allow the rhythm to take over.

When we let the softer parts of ourselves coexist with the wilder ones.

And when that wild side finally awakens, there is no need to force anything.

The beauty is already there.

It simply reveals itself.

Perhaps that's the beauty of letting your wild side awaken.

And perhaps that is what belly dance has always been capable of showing us:

that movement can be both softness and strength, tradition and freedom, elegance and instinct.

Sometimes, all we have to do is listen.

And let the body dance.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Shakira - Zoo (From Zootopia 2)

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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
凱西CATHY TikTok：https://www.tiktok.com/@cathyhsieh66
凱西CATHY Facebook：https://www.facebook.com/cathybellydance
凱西CATHY Instagram：https://www.instagram.com/cathyhsieh106

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
凱西CATHY TikTok：https://www.tiktok.com/@cathyhsieh66
凱西CATHY Facebook：https://www.facebook.com/cathybellydance
凱西CATHY Instagram：https://www.instagram.com/cathyhsieh106

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
凱西CATHY TikTok：https://www.tiktok.com/@cathyhsieh66
凱西CATHY Facebook：https://www.facebook.com/cathybellydance
凱西CATHY Instagram：https://www.instagram.com/cathyhsieh106

The music starts, and something changes.

At first, it may be only a small movement. A shoulder relaxes. The hips begin to follow the rhythm. The hands find their own place in the air. Then the music grows, and the movement becomes bigger, warmer, more alive.

For a moment, there is nothing else to think about.

Just the music.

Just the body.

Just the moment.

This is one of the beautiful things about belly dance. It brings us back to something very simple: the feeling of being in our own body.

We spend so much of everyday life thinking about how we should look, how we should behave, and how we should fit into the world around us. We are surrounded by images and expectations. We learn to compare ourselves with others, sometimes without even noticing.

We look at our age.

Our shape.

Our appearance.

We wonder if we are young enough, beautiful enough, slim enough, graceful enough.

But when the music begins, those questions can become quiet.

The body does not need to explain itself.

It only needs to move.

Belly dance has a special way of showing how much expression can live inside a small movement. A slow circle of the hips can feel completely different from a quick, playful shimmy. A soft movement of the arms can create a sense of calm, while a strong rhythm can fill the whole body with energy.

Nothing has to look exactly the same every time.

And perhaps that is the point.

We are not exactly the same every day either.

Some days we are full of energy. Some days we are quiet. Some days we want to be seen, and some days we are happy simply being ourselves.

There is nothing wrong with that.

Life was never meant to be one straight line.

It has its own rhythm.

Sometimes fast.

Sometimes slow.

Sometimes smooth.

Sometimes completely unexpected.

The music of Safri Duo's Samb-Adagio carries that feeling beautifully. There is movement in the rhythm, but there is also space. There are moments that feel calm and controlled, followed by moments that invite the body to open up and let go.

It feels a little like life itself.

We cannot control every rhythm that comes our way.

We can only learn how to move with it.

Maybe that is why dance can feel so freeing.

We are not always trying to control the body. Sometimes we are listening to it.

We notice the breath.

We notice the weight shifting through the feet.

We notice the hips, the shoulders, the chest, the hands.

Little by little, we become more aware of what the body is saying.

And sometimes the body says things that words cannot.

It can say, “I am happy.”

It can say, “I am strong.”

It can say, “I am tired.”

It can say, “I am still here.”

That last one may be the most important.

Because life changes us.

Our bodies change.

Our faces change.

Our priorities change.

The person we are today may not be the person we were ten years ago, and that is not something we need to hide.

There is beauty in change.

There is beauty in becoming.

There is beauty in realizing that we do not have to remain inside the same definition forever.

This is where belly dance becomes more than movement.

It becomes a way of celebrating the body as it is, right now.

Not the body we wish we had.

Not the body we think we should have.

The body we actually have.

The body that has carried us through every ordinary day, every difficult moment, every happy memory, and every new beginning.

That body deserves to move.

It deserves music.

It deserves joy.

And it deserves to be seen with kindness.

There is also something wonderfully feminine about belly dance, but femininity does not have to look only one way.

It can be soft.

It can be bold.

It can be playful.

It can be quiet.

It can be sensual.

It can be powerful.

It can change from one moment to the next.

We do not have to choose just one version.

We can be many things.

Maybe this is what makes movement so personal. Two people can hear the same music and feel something completely different. One may move gently. Another may move with energy. One may enjoy the smallest details, while another may love the freedom of a bigger movement.

There is no single answer.

There is simply expression.

And expression does not need to be perfect.

Sometimes the most beautiful moments happen when we stop trying so hard to make everything perfect.

When the movement becomes natural.

When the breath becomes easy.

When the rhythm takes over.

When we stop watching ourselves from the outside and simply experience the moment from within.

That is when the body begins to feel alive.

Not perfect.

Not younger.

Not thinner.

Not more impressive.

Just alive.

Perhaps being alive is not about constantly doing more.

Perhaps it is about being able to feel more.

To notice music.

To enjoy movement.

To laugh without worrying how it looks.

To wear something that makes us feel beautiful.

To dance because the rhythm makes us want to.

To allow ourselves to change.

To discover that there are still new things we can enjoy, even after years of becoming who we thought we were supposed to be.

There is no final version of us.

There is no need to arrive at one.

We can keep changing.

Keep growing.

Keep moving.

Keep surprising ourselves.

This is why I love the idea:

No labels. Just live.

Do not let one number define you.

Do not let one photograph define you.

Do not let one difficult day define you.

Do not let anyone else decide how much joy, beauty, or freedom you are allowed to have.

There is still music.

There is still movement.

There is still another rhythm waiting to be felt.

So let the shoulders relax.

Let the hips move.

Let the breath become part of the music.

Let the body have its own voice.

You do not have to become someone else.

You only have to give yourself permission to be fully here.

Maybe that is the real beauty of belly dance.

It does not ask us to become a perfect image.

It reminds us that we are already living, already changing, already carrying

our own rhythm. And as long as there is rhythm, there is movement.

As long as there is movement, there is life.

So keep moving.

Keep feeling.

Keep changing.

Keep discovering the person you are becoming.

There is no fixed shape you have to stay in.

No single version you have to protect.

No perfect moment you have to wait for.

There is only this moment.

This body.

This breath.

This life.

No labels.
No fixed mold.
Just movement.
Just live.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Safri Duo - Samb-Adagio

#凱西CATHY

凱西CATHY YouTube：https://www.youtube.com/c/CathyHsieh
凱西CATHY TikTok：https://www.tiktok.com/@cathyhsieh66
凱西CATHY Facebook：https://www.facebook.com/cathybellydance
凱西CATHY Instagram：https://www.instagram.com/cathyhsieh106

Somewhere along the way, we begin to realize that the beauty of life is not always about having everything perfectly planned.

It is not about arranging every day like a beautiful picture, keeping every detail polished, or making sure that life always looks effortless from the outside.

Perhaps the real quality of life is much quieter than that.

Perhaps it is simply having a heart that can still be touched by happiness.

A ray of sunlight falling across the floor.

A song that suddenly makes you want to move.

A warm breeze against your skin.

A smile that appears without a reason.

A moment when you catch your own reflection and realize that, somewhere along the way, you have become softer, freer, and more alive.

That is the kind of beauty I find in belly dance.

And that is why belly dance has never felt like just a dance to me.

It feels like a conversation with the body.

Let the Music Find You

There is something wonderfully irresistible about Mahmoud El Esseily’s Dom Dom.

The rhythm has a playful energy. It moves with confidence, warmth, and a sense of freedom that makes it almost impossible to remain completely still.

The moment the music begins, the body seems to understand something before the mind does.

The shoulders soften.

The hips begin to sway.

The hands find their own expression.

The body listens.

And then, almost naturally, it starts to answer.

This is one of the beautiful things about belly dance. It does not require the body to be perfect before it is allowed to move.

It invites the body to be present.

A hip movement can be small.

A shoulder roll can be subtle.

A gentle undulation can become a quiet expression of emotion.

Sometimes the most captivating movement is not the biggest one. It is the one that feels honest.

Belly dance has a wonderful way of reminding us that movement does not have to be loud to be powerful.

There Is Beauty in Being Seen by Yourself

We spend so much of our lives looking outward.

We think about how we appear.

How we are perceived.

Whether we are doing enough.

Whether we are beautiful enough.

Whether we are moving through life in the “right” way.

But when the music begins, all of that can become wonderfully distant.

For a few minutes, there is only rhythm, breath, movement, and the body.

You begin to notice things you may have forgotten.

The softness of your arms.

The natural curve of your waist.

The strength in your legs.

The movement of your hips.

The way your body responds when you stop judging it and simply let it exist.

There is something deeply liberating about that.

Belly dance celebrates curves, softness, femininity, strength, and individuality without asking them to fit into a single definition of beauty.

It says: this body is already worthy of movement.

This body is already worthy of joy.

And this body deserves to be celebrated.

A Little Light in the Heart

Perhaps this is what we mean when we talk about having “a little light in the heart.”

It does not mean that every day is perfect.

It does not mean that life is always easy.

It simply means that somewhere inside us, there is still a place that can respond to beauty.

A place that can be delighted by music.

A place that can laugh.

A place that can dance simply because it feels good.

That little light may become smaller when life gets busy. Sometimes it may seem to disappear beneath responsibilities, routines, and endless things to do.

But music has a way of finding it again.

And movement has a way of waking it up.

One sway of the hips.

One turn of the shoulders.

One playful gesture.

One smile.

Suddenly, the day feels a little different.

Not because anything outside has changed, but because something inside has.

Living at Your Own Pace

There is also something wonderfully graceful about moving at your own pace.

Belly dance does not have to be about chasing perfection.

It can be about enjoying the moment.

About discovering your own rhythm.

About allowing your movement to become softer when you feel soft, stronger when you feel strong, playful when you feel playful, and mysterious when you simply want to be.

There is no need to rush.

There is no need to compare.

There is only the music and the moment you are living in.

And perhaps that is another form of luxury in modern life: the ability to slow down enough to actually feel yourself living.

We often think a beautiful life is one filled with beautiful things.

But maybe it is a life filled with beautiful moments.

A favorite song.

A spontaneous smile.

A body that feels alive.

A quiet evening.

A little movement in front of the mirror.

A heart that is still easy to reach.

Let the Years Become Sweeter

As time passes, perhaps beauty becomes less about looking untouched by time and more about becoming beautifully touched by it.

The years leave something behind.

A little more wisdom.

A little more softness.

A little more confidence.

A better understanding of what truly matters.

And perhaps that is why belly dance feels so timeless.

It does not ask us to become younger.

It asks us to become more present.

To inhabit our bodies rather than constantly trying to change them.

To enjoy femininity rather than define it.

To express ourselves rather than wait for permission.

To let the body tell a story that words sometimes cannot.

So turn up the music.

Let Dom Dom fill the room.

Let your shoulders loosen.

Let your hips follow the rhythm.

Let your smile arrive naturally.

You do not need a special occasion to dance.

You do not need a perfect body.

You do not need a perfect day.

You only need a moment when you are willing to listen to the music and let yourself feel alive.

Because perhaps the true quality of life has never been about making every day look perfect.

Perhaps it is about keeping a heart that can still be touched by happiness.

A little light in the heart.

A smile that comes easily.

A life lived at your own pace.

And as the years go by, may everything grow a little sweeter.

Video Information on Social Media
Dancer: Cathy Hsieh
Song: Mahmoud El Esseily - Dom Dom

#凱西CATHY

凱西CATHY YouTube：https://www.youtube.com/c/CathyHsieh
凱西CATHY TikTok：https://www.tiktok.com/@cathyhsieh66
凱西CATHY Facebook：https://www.facebook.com/cathybellydance
凱西CATHY Instagram：https://www.instagram.com/cathyhsieh106