Foreword
When I started this journey, I didn’t know it would lead to this book. I didn’t know I’d write about betrayal, resilience, dancing until sunrise, or fighting my way through life’s messiness to find my own rhythm. I didn’t know how many layers I’d uncover within myself or how much I’d grow in the process.
This isn’t a story about perfection—it’s a story about becoming. It’s about the moments that broke me, the ones that healed me, and the ones that made me feel alive. It’s about heartbreak and redemption, vulnerability and strength, and the endless pursuit of joy in a world that sometimes feels too heavy. It’s about choosing to keep going, even when the weight of the past feels impossible to carry.
You’ll meet the people who shaped me: mentors who believed in me, friends who held me up, rivals who challenged me, and those who hurt me in ways I never expected. Each of them left a mark, and this book is as much about them as it is about me.
At its core, this is a love letter—to dancing, to resilience, to connection, and to the messy, imperfect, beautiful journey of being human. Writing this was an act of courage, and I hope reading it feels like an act of connection.
Wherever you are in your own journey, I hope my story encourages you to take the next step. To embrace the hard lessons, to find your own rhythm, and to never stop dancing—even when the music changes.
Welcome to my story. I’m so glad you’re here.
Tony V.
December 2024
Introduction
I like to party with a 77-year-old woman named Frances.
She’s the queen of our dancing cult here in Rochester.
Even though she’s a dinosaur, she still parties at least once or twice a week. She’s at practically every salsa event, every time.
We’ve probably done 100 parties together over the past three years. Yeah, that’s about right.
Frances is so flexible that she can still do a dropkick that would knock a grown man in the face. She loves whipping out a big dropkick whenever a salsa song starts with a dramatic opening.
She’s been dancing salsa for over 50 years.
When she was younger, she danced for Garth Fagan, the choreographer behind the Broadway production of The Lion King.
Frances gets nervous and restless if she goes without dancing for too long. Since I’ve known her, she twists every dancer’s arm to assemble a show for the local community every six months.
Thanks to Frances, I can proudly say that, at 36, I have a dance crew—and we’re damn good. This past summer, she used her connections to get us a performance at the Memorial Art Gallery in Rochester. That’s the most prominent art gallery in the whole city.
She’s so revered that whenever I take her to dance in Syracuse, the DJ has Frances lead a group dance at the night’s end. She improvises a bunch of moves, and the whole room follows. And yes, we all do follow.
Despite her age, Frances is always the baddest bitch in the room. She taught me how to be larger than life. It’s a skill—and she gave it to me. It was a critical ingredient in shaping the person I am today.
She taught me to bring the party with me wherever I go. To be the source of fun.
If the dance floor is empty, I fix that fast.
Frances taught me many dance moves, but that’s not what’s stuck with me the most.
A lot of guys go out, don’t see many cute girls, or think the dancing isn’t great, and then whine about how the party sucks.
Not me.
At 36, I thought my best partying days were behind me. Boy, was I wrong? I was leaving 98% of my party-animal self on the table without realizing it.
Frances taught me how to be an expert at having fun. How to bring joy to the masses.
