Why Dance Businesses Are the Unsung Engines of City Growth

When cities talk about economic growth, they talk about tech, real estate, restaurants, retail. Rarely, if ever, do they talk about dance businesses. And yet, dance studios are quietly shaping the cultural, economic, and social heartbeat of our cities.

As someone who left a cushy corporate career to build a dance community in Seattle, I’ve lived both sides. I know the spreadsheets that don't add up, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the self-doubt that creeps in when the bills are high and the energy is low. 

And I also know this: dance businesses may not look like “big business,” but their impact is undeniable.

We Preserve Culture and Enrich Communities

Every time a student steps into our studio, they don't just learn dance... they reconnect with themselves. 

As an adult, making friends in a new city is hard. Add the layer of being an immigrant, and it can feel almost impossible.

Dance changes that. It turns strangers into a family.

For immigrants, dance becomes a bridge between “home” and “here.” It also helps second-generation kids connect with their roots, and it helps cities like Seattle expand their cultural palette.

Our studio has become that home away from home. A space where culture isn’t just preserved, it’s lived.

We Drive the Local Economy

Running a dance studio is not just teaching dance. It’s managing staff, paying rent, renting theaters, designing costumes, hiring photographers, videographers, marketing teams, event managers, and so much more

It’s the ripple effect that goes unseen. Restaurants filled before and after classes, parking garages overflowing, vendors, designers, caterers, stage crews all thriving because of one performance night.

Multiply that by numerous such nights in our studio and hundreds of studios across a city, and you start to see what nobody talks about; how dance businesses silently fuel local economies, while also filling hearts.

We Build the City’s Emotional Fabric

Dance is not just movement. It’s therapy. It’s connection. It’s belonging. In our studio, I’ve seen exhausted corporate professionals find joy again; students with social anxiety shine on stage and cries after, because they finally felt seen; moms reclaim their identities beyond motherhood.

I see this happen all day, everyday.

And it’s not just about the people inside the studio. Dance businesses often become the glue between communities and civic institutions. From police-community bridge events to charity fundraisers, dance creates the kind of human connection that no policy paper ever could.

We Model Resilience and Leadership

Most dance entrepreneurs I know are women, immigrants, or people from underrepresented backgrounds. 

We’ve built our businesses from scratch, with no investors, no playbook, just a vision and grit.

We’ve survived high rents, pandemic shutdowns, visa rejections, financial droughts and endless “Are you sure this is sustainable?” looks

And yet adapt. Moving online, reinventing our offerings, staying alive when others fold.

This resilience isn’t just about business survival. It sets an example for our students, our kids, our communities: that you can chase your passion, build something meaningful, and still contribute to the city’s growth.

The Multiplier Effect

One dance business isn’t just one dance business. It’s a ripple. It’s energy. It’s creativity spilling out into the streets, enriching the city in ways you can’t always put on a balance sheet.

And that’s the point.

Cities don’t just need infrastructure — they need heartbeat.
Dance studios are that heartbeat.
They build confidence, connection, and culture. They create citizens who feel seen, supported, and alive.

And yet, they’re often dismissed as hobbies.

I call it home. A place where strangers turn into families, where culture finds its voice again, and where cities remember to breathe.

So the next time we talk about “building strong cities,” let’s not forget the ones who are literally teaching our cities to dance. 💛

40. FOUR ZERO.

Forty trips around the sun. Forty New Year’s resolutions I didn’t keep. Forty chances to stumble, rise, stumble again, and rise a little taller each time.

When I was little, honestly, 40 looked like a full stop. A number so big it felt like life would surely end there. You know… people at 40 were supposed to retire, sit in their verandas, and complain about their backs. Old. Grumpy. Done.

Well, LOL. How wrong were we?

Because here I am at 40 and the story’s just getting good.

Something flipped this year. Like a switch inside me. Suddenly, I don’t care who’s watching, clapping, or whispering behind my back. I don’t care to “keep up” or “prove myself.” I’ve found my lane, and I’m swimming in it—loudly, joyfully, unapologetically. And oh boy, it’s liberating.

This last decade? Whew. It wasn’t pretty. Between raising kids (while constantly wondering if I’m screwing it up), building a business from scratch, heartbreaks, failures, pandemic, bankruptcy, broken bones, losing people I loved, mental, emotional, and physical breakdowns, raising my voice for those who couldn’t, lawsuits, injuries, bankruptcy, vandalism—you name it. Life threw the whole kitchen sink at me.

And yet… in the middle of the chaos, I grew up.

I stopped chasing validation.
I stopped measuring my worth in applause, Instagram likes, or polite nods of “you’re doing so well.”

My definition of success shifted from validation → to impact.

Success no longer looks like trophies, promotions, or milestones.

It looks like, the sound of my kids’ giggles echoing through the house. A student telling me they feel “seen” on the dance floor. A random message that says, “Hey, you made my day better.” The quiet joy of knowing that my work has created a safe space for someone.

At 40, success is not about proving myself. It’s about improving the spaces I step into.
It’s not about competing. It’s about creating. It’s leaving a legacy etched in hearts.

Did I hit every target I once dreamed of? Nope. I missed plenty.
But what I gained instead? Love. Warmth. Blessings. COUNTLESS.

So here’s to 40.
To being bold. To being messy. To laughing out loudest. To being unapologetically me. To being silly. To being wildly ambitious. But ambitious for joy, not just milestones.

To building a life that will outlive me. Not in monuments, but in memories.

Because achievements? Validation? They fade.
But impact? Happiness? Legacy?
That’s forever.

And for everyone who’s walked beside me, cheered for me, lifted me—I am, because YOU are.

With love,
Deepali

From Outrage to Action: How We Turned Grief into Change After Jhaanavi's Death

 “Cut her a check for $11,000. She was of limited value anyway.”

Those words, spoken by Officer Daniel Auderer after the tragic death of Jhaanavi Kandula, continue to echo in my mind like a broken alarm — sharp, callous, and impossible to ignore.

Eleven thousand dollars? Is that what a young Indian immigrant’s life is worth? That’s it? Are we really that disposable? That invisible? That unworthy in the eyes of those who are sworn to protect us?

My first reaction, like many others, was a tidal wave of rage, grief, and disbelief. I wanted him held accountable. Fully. Publicly. I wanted to shout until someone—anyone—listened. I wanted to break something, to make noise, to do something. I screamed into pillows. I cried for nights. Those words haunted me. Still do.

Then came the overwhelming urge for justice. I knew he couldn’t just walk away from this. So, I did what I know how to do best—I started writing. Letters to SPD. To the Office of Police Accountability. To the Mayor. To the City of Seattle. I didn’t know if anyone would listen, but I had to try.

I organized solidarity walks, hosted town halls, opened up difficult conversations. We made ourselves visible—because visibility is power. And we needed power to demand accountability.

But once the rage began to settle, another question surfaced. Why did he say that? What kind of person even thinks that, let alone says it out loud? Was he an outlier—or a reflection of a deeper problem? Could this be the mindset of others in uniform too? I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t believe that.

And that’s when I met Victoria Beach—a fierce community advocate who’s been working with SPD for years to bridge cultural gaps. The moment I met her, something clicked. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

We had to help bridge that cultural divide.
Because maybe it wasn’t just cruelty. Maybe it was ignorance. A complete lack of understanding of who we are.

They don’t know our stories. Our struggles. Our achievements. Our deep cultural roots. They don’t see how hard we’ve worked to build our lives here—how much we’ve given, how much we’ve lost just to belong.

Maybe they don’t see our humanity because they’ve never had the opportunity to witness it.

And while yes, it should be on them to educate themselves… it’s also on us to speak up. To show up. To stand tall in our identity and tell our stories out loud.

Because how can anyone empathize with what they’ve never seen or known?

I’ve always believed there are two kinds of people in this world: those who sit back and blame the system, and those who roll up their sleeves and step inside to change it.

In July 2024, we formed the Indian Community Advisory Council, a team of nine fearless individuals who chose to be part of the solution—not the problem. 

Together, we began the real work. Not glamorous. Not always easy. But necessary.
We’ve now led 9 training sessions with SPD, hosted 4 community engagement events, and have personally trained over 100 new police recruits, giving them a window into our world— our values, our lived realities.

And what stands out the most? At the end of each session, we walk away with something powerful: mutual respect. Connection. Smiles exchanged. Hands folded. Recruits greeting us with a heartfelt, “Namaste.”

It’s in those moments that I know we’re doing something that matters.
That change—real change—doesn’t always come from outrage. Sometimes, it comes from showing up, from choosing empathy, from telling our stories boldly and beautifully until they can't be ignored.

They didn’t know us. That was part of the problem.
But now—they're beginning to.

And that’s a start.