How Latin Music Changed My Life – Long Before the Super Bowl

On music, movement, and finding home in unfamiliar places.

“A few of us are going out to see a salsa band this Friday. Do you want to come?”

I clung to the invitation like a lifeline.

I knew nothing about Latin music and didn’t really know what “salsa” was, other than a delicious sauce you put on tacos. I’d certainly never heard salsa music performed live before. I accepted because I love live music and thought it would be fun to experience something new.

More importantly, I accepted because I was desperately lonely. The fact that a friend saw me and reached out meant the world in that moment.

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My marriage was unraveling. My husband had moved out for the second time in two years. He was a musician, and music had been central to our life together. When he left, the music I once loved felt unreachable.

That night, I found myself mesmerized. It was completely new to me – music with nothing to do with my past and everything to do with my present. It pulled me in and made me want to move my feet, my hips, my entire body.

Suddenly, people began stepping out onto the dance floor. Slack-jawed, I watched salsa dancers move in a way I’d never experienced before. Staring transfixed, I started taking tentative steps and soon found myself dancing in the back of the room, longingly wishing I knew how to move like that.

So after the concert, when my friends mentioned they had signed up for a beginner salsa dance class at the community college starting the following Friday, I immediately committed to joining in.

I was terrible. I mean, I was really bad at it. I could memorize steps, but the moment music entered the equation, I was lost – confused, offbeat, flailing. The beginner class lasted six weeks, and when it ended, I signed up again for another six-week series.

One instructor told me I moved like a horse. It wasn’t kind and didn’t help my confidence. And… he wasn’t wrong.

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Eventually, I ventured out to a couple of social dances and tentatively tried dancing in public. It took a while (read: a couple of years), but gradually I stopped thinking the steps and began feeling the music, allowing my body to move as a response, rather than a forced or controlled action. That’s when I began dancing.

And my life transformed.

I danced in restaurants, bars, and basements, in living rooms, on patios, rooftops, and in city squares. I danced all night into the wee hours of the morning. The more I danced, the more energy I generated. The more I moved and got lost in the music and the rhythms and the beats, the more I found my way back to joy, to confidence, to life.

I danced the night away. I danced the darkness and sadness away. I danced into the light, into the day. I danced myself free. I danced into a new and expanded life.

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A white, awkwardly tall Scandinavian girl who grew up in a conservative Christian household where dancing was frowned upon at best, forbidden at times... was transformed by the warmth, generosity, and welcoming spirit of the Latin community.

Salsa, bachata, merengue, cumbia, reggaeton... I danced to it all. To some beats, better than others but all of them moved me.

Over time, I began learning tango, and for nearly a decade, I ventured deep into this expression. I danced tango in Denver, in Portland, in San Francisco, in San Diego. I danced in Oslo, in Warsaw, in Seoul.

All dance is communication. If tango is a series of serious, intimate conversations, salsa is joyful, outward expression.

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Latin music and dance changed my life at a transitional time. And this month, it showed up again, in the most unlikely of places: the Super Bowl.

I’ve lived in the U.S. for three decades, and despite many patient explanations over the years, football has never stuck. If and when I watch the Super Bowl, it’s for the halftime show and the commercials.

Undoubtedly, I had heard his music before, but I’d only recently become consciously aware of Bad Bunny. His Grammy acceptance speech with the impactful message: “the only thing more powerful than hate is love” resonated deeply, and I immediately knew he was my kind of people.

Yes, that’s right. A Latin trap & urban music artist from Puerto Rico with lyrics that would make my more conservative family members blush or possibly pale, who talks about love and rising above hatred... is exactly my kind of person.

So when I heard that Bad Bunny was performing at Super Bowl LX, there was no way I was going to miss the show.

And boy, did he deliver.

“Joyful and infectious” is how Jon Stewart described it on The Daily Show the next day.

From Puerto Rican cane fields and barrios to New York City, with guest appearances by Lady Gaga, Ricky Martin, and other all-stars, a real-life wedding, and a symbolic handoff of his Grammy award to a young boy with the encouragement to always believe in yourself. The performance delivered not only powerful storytelling, history lessons, and a call to unity – but also, once again, that compelling message: “the only thing more powerful than hate is love.”

Say what you will about explicit lyrics – popular music across genres has always pushed boundaries – but the leadership Bad Bunny demonstrated deserves to stand on its own.

In the Super Bowl halftime show, Bad Bunny reminded me of a transformational time in my life. He reminded me of the power of joy to bridge divides. He reminded all of us of our shared humanity.

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“No, no te puedo olvidar” → No, I can’t forget you.

“No, no te puedo borrar” → No, I can’t erase you.

“Tú me enseñaste a querer” → You taught me how to love.

“Me enseñaste a bailar” → You taught me how to dance.

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In learning how to dance, I found connection, community, and clarity. I found my way home – to myself.