mute

Chapter 7

Chapter: Finding Her Rhythm

The days that followed were a revelation for Billie. Dance, which had begun as a source of anxiety and fear, slowly became something much more profound. It was no longer just a class or a hobby—dance became a way for Billie to express herself in ways that words and even music couldn’t quite capture.

At first, Billie’s tics and the unpredictable nature of her Tourette’s made every class a challenge. She struggled to find a rhythm that felt natural, her movements often interrupted by sudden jerks or twitches that seemed to throw her off balance. But something about the music, about the way it flowed through her body, started to make sense. Billie found that when she focused on the beat, on the patterns of the choreography, her tics sometimes softened, becoming less intrusive. The more she immersed herself in the dance, the more control she felt over her body.

Each day that passed, Billie’s confidence grew. The routine of dance classes, though a disruption to her homeschooling schedule, began to offer her a new kind of structure. It was different, but the repetition of warm-ups, stretches, and steps became something she could rely on, something she could anticipate. The predictability of it gave her comfort, and slowly, she started to feel less anxious about the changes it brought to her day.

Dance also helped Billie express emotions she didn’t always know how to articulate. Her autism sometimes made it difficult to communicate feelings, and being mute only added another layer of complexity to how she interacted with the world. But through dance, she found a new language—a physical one. When she was happy, her movements were light and graceful, her steps quick and full of energy. When she felt frustrated or overwhelmed, her dancing became more intense, her movements sharper and more purposeful. It was like speaking without needing to say a word, and that gave Billie a kind of freedom she hadn’t known before.

Her dance instructor, who had been patient and understanding from the beginning, noticed the transformation in Billie. She saw the way Billie’s movements started to tell stories, the way her emotions spilled out through her body, and she encouraged it. She never pressured Billie to be perfect, never expected her to fit into the mold of the other dancers. Instead, she allowed Billie to explore dance on her own terms, creating a space where she could be herself, tics and all.

One afternoon, as Billie moved across the dance studio during a quiet practice session, her instructor watched her with admiration.

"Billie," she said gently, catching her attention, "you have a gift for expressing emotion through movement. It’s like you’re telling a story with every step."

Billie paused, her chest rising and falling from exertion, and looked at her instructor with surprise. She wasn’t used to being praised for something that felt so deeply personal. But there was no judgment in her teacher’s eyes, only encouragement.

She glanced over at Finneas, who had come along for moral support and was watching from the sidelines as always. His smile was wide, his face full of pride. He signed to her, "You’re amazing, Billie. You don’t even realize how much emotion you’re showing."

Billie signed back slowly, "It feels…good. Like I don’t have to think so much."

Finneas nodded. "Exactly. You’re letting your body speak for you."

Dance became more than just an activity for Billie—it was a lifeline, a way for her to channel all the things she struggled to express in her day-to-day life. Whether it was frustration from a difficult math lesson that had set off her tics, or joy after a quiet, peaceful day of homeschooling, Billie found she could pour everything she was feeling into her dance. And even on days when her tics were particularly bad, when her body seemed determined to betray her, dance became her way of fighting back. It was her way of saying, "I’m still in control."

The more she danced, the more Billie noticed subtle changes in herself. She felt calmer, less overwhelmed by her Tourette’s and autism. Of course, the challenges didn’t disappear—there were still moments of frustration, still tic attacks and meltdowns when things got too much—but dance helped her cope. It gave her an outlet, a way to manage her emotions before they spiraled into something uncontrollable.

One day, during a particularly tough lesson at home, Billie found herself struggling with a math problem that triggered her tics. Her arm jerked, knocking the pencil off the table, and she felt the familiar pressure building in her chest, the telltale signs of a meltdown creeping in.

Before she could lose control, Billie stood up abruptly and signed to her mom, "I need to dance."

Maggie, who had been sitting beside her, simply nodded. "Go ahead, Billie."

Without another word, Billie hurried to the small space in the living room that had become her impromptu dance floor. She turned on her favorite piece of music and let herself get lost in the sound. Her movements were sharp at first, full of the frustration and anxiety she was feeling, but as the music flowed, so did she. Slowly, her body began to relax, the tension ebbing away with each step she took.

By the time the song ended, Billie’s breathing had slowed, and the tics had lessened. The impending meltdown had been averted, at least for the moment. Dance, once again, had helped her regain control.

It was a powerful realization for Billie, one that changed the way she approached her daily life. Whenever she felt overwhelmed—whether it was from homeschooling, her Tourette’s, or simply the pressure of being different—she knew she could turn to dance. It became her refuge, a way to express herself when words or even music weren’t enough.

One evening, as she sat at the piano with Finneas, her arm still wrapped in its cast from the recent break, she signed to him, "I think dance is how I talk."

Finneas looked at her, his eyes soft with understanding. "I think you’re right, Billie."

The next few days passed quietly, with Billie settling into a new rhythm. Homeschool in the mornings, dance in the afternoons, and piano in the evenings with Finneas. The structure wasn’t rigid, but it was enough to give her a sense of stability, something she desperately needed. Even though her autism made changes in routine difficult, the combination of familiar activities and dance as an emotional outlet helped Billie manage her anxiety.

But despite the progress, not every day was easy. There were still times when her Tourette’s flared up unpredictably, or when a change in plans sent her spiraling into a meltdown. Yet, Billie no longer felt trapped by those moments. She had tools now—dance, music, the support of her family—to help her find her way back when things got hard.

And, perhaps most importantly, Billie had found a way to express herself that felt truly her own. In a world that often felt too loud, too overwhelming, dance was her quiet rebellion, her way of saying, "This is me. And I’m okay."