Milo Janecek

The train to the car plant is always crowded at this hour. I squeeze into my usual corner, eyes half-closed, still thinking about last night's salsa class. We learned a new move, a quick turn that made me feel weightless. Even now, I can hear the rhythm in my head, feel the beat under my skin.

I’ve been dancing salsa for 18 years. It all started after a trip to New York when I was 20. I stumbled into a salsa club, and the music hooked me. New York-style salsa, with its emphasis on giving the woman more freedom to shine, fascinated me. It was a far cry from the rigid expectations of my upbringing.

At work, things are different. As a mechanical engineer in a massive car plant north-east of Prague, Czech Republic, I’m surrounded by men who think dancing is a joke. They make their little comments about it being “for homosexuals,” their homophobia barely disguised as humor. I used to let it get to me, but now I just shrug it off. I know they’re speaking from a place of insecurity, unable to understand that masculinity isn’t about fitting into a narrow box.

What hurts more is my father. He raised my brother and me to be “tough” men, thinking any deviation from that was a sign of weakness. He doesn’t understand why I would spend my evenings dancing instead of watching football or downing beers with my colleagues. But I don’t care. I’ve stopped trying to fit into the mold he built for me. Dancing has taught me to embrace who I am, even if it’s not what he imagined.

I feel sorry for those who are still stuck in their old ways of thinking. They’re missing out on so much by clinging to outdated ideas of what it means to be a man. For me, salsa isn’t just a hobby—it’s a celebration of freedom, of expression, of life. I’m proud to be doing my own thing, even if it means standing out in a crowd. To me, that’s the real meaning of strength.