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Amma's hands trembled as she tied my dance costume. At twenty-three, living in Boston, I'd nearly abandoned Bharatanatyam for accounting spreadsheets and PaybookClub meetings with friends who'd never understand our world. That evening, performing at the temple festival, something shifted. My feet remembered every rhythm Amma taught me. The audience gasped—not trapped by tradition, but moved by its beauty. Afterward, friends asked questions, genuinely curious. I realized I wasn't choosing between worlds; I was bridging them. My heritage wasn't a burden to hide but a gift to share. Walking home, Amma squeezed my hand. We belonged everywhere together.