Here is what a song can do, or more specifically, the profound importance of a single moment in time.

It’s 10 pm on a Friday in Penrith. The school dance is in full swing under a cloud of smoke machines and dim lights. In his infinite wisdom, the DJ calls out for the “Men in the room to grab their girls.”

(Sidebar here: My kids’ disgust for sexism and chauvinism would surely overshadow their love of the ‘90s aesthetic here. To clarify: The DJ wasn’t asking for a Donald Trump type of grabbing. He was simply asking the men (or boys) to lead the dance. To be men, you know, it was the f*cking ’90s, right? Good lord!)

But I hear it as a call to action. I spring into step, ready to “grab my girl”! I search through the smoky room for Crystal. Without hesitation, I spot her. Actually, she’s already standing beside me, already reaching for my hand, which I take as we glide onto the dance floor. I stare into her eyes as I walk backward through the dense crowd of slow dancers; I have grabbed my girl!

Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” is playing, and I am mouthing the words to her as we dance. I’m leading like a good ‘90s man (boy) should, and then, the room parts for us, all the other dancers now pause to watch us sway, we are brilliant. Everyone had been waiting for this moment to watch us dance. Everyone. As the smoke clears, a circle forms around us. I break free and start solo dancing… a microphone appears in my hands, and I begin singing. The girls in the room, even the ones the “men had grabbed,” start crying and reaching for me…

Ahem.

It’s 10 pm on a Friday in Penrith. The school dance is in full swing under a cloud of smoke machines and dim lights. In his infinite wisdom, the DJ calls out for the “Men in the room to grab their girls.” (Yes, that part actually happened).

I’m scanning the crowded room through the smoky darkness, and Crystal is nowhere in sight. I have mustered all my courage to ask Crystal to dance, and I have been planning this moment for 6 weeks. In a heartbeat, we are now halfway through the song, with only a sparse crowd shuffling on the dance floor, and I finally find her. Casually, with all the confidence I can muster, I ask, “Hi, Crystal. I didn’t know you were here. Want to dance?”

Crystal nods. “Sure.”

As we awkwardly shuffle onto the dance floor, I’m grappling with a critical strategic decision: hands on hips or shoulders? The ghost of my brother’s infamous ‘White Man’s Overbite’ maneuver haunts me still (you need to read my book to understand the gravity of this reference, but trust me, it’s bad). I nervously bite my upper lip, trying to make a choice. Then I reach out for her hips, no, her shoulders, not shoulders, hips...

Oh Jesus, I thought.

Before I knew it, I’d latched onto her neck.

Yes. Her neck. My hands are now firmly wrapped around Crystal’s neck (and throat), fingers intertwined like a yoga stretch around her windpipe. I sense the same panic from Crystal, her hands flailing in the distant gap between us. She eventually settles for my hips. We shuffle on, me clenching at Crystal’s neck as we sway, holding my hips with straight, locked arms, both of us looking anywhere but at each other.

To this day, those 45 seconds of neck-holding and hip-resting live in my memory as the single most awkward moment of my life.

Then, mercy arrives.

Mr. Pasqua, our ever-observant Maths teacher, comes to our rescue. He gently peels my hands off her windpipe and guides them to Crystal’s sides. He places her hands on my shoulders, looks at us both, and in his thick American accent says, “Relax, dancing is fun!”

The tension snaps. We both laugh out loud, and suddenly, I can actually hear the music. We dance to “Time After Time,” and the teenage battlefield of awkward glances and nervous sweats fades away. For those few minutes, it is just us, the music, my secret favorite singer of all time (Cindi Lauper), and the girl “I had grabbed” to share it with.

Cyndi Lauper didn’t just disappear after the dance; she became the recurring soundtrack to my life. “True Colors” was a lifeline thrown to me by a singer who knew what it meant to lose, to struggle, and to keep creating anyway (I write more about Cyndi in Lessons In Creativity).

We are being sold a friction-free future. AI, social media, and the Meta-verse are all pitching us on the dream of seamlessness. But there is a hidden cost to a world without edges. When algorithms feed algorithms, the loop eventually closes on itself. The culture begins to cannibalise its own data, trending relentlessly toward the average. If we trust the feed, we all eventually become the same voice, echoing into the void.

This is our opportunity to resist.

To be human is to reject the seamless. It is to create from the heart, from curiosity, and from courage. We need the friction. That is why a song written in a New York apartment decades ago can still floor a teenager in Penrith or comfort a woman in a hospital ward. It wasn’t optimised; it was felt.

But writing a song is just mechanics; it’s arranging notes on a page. Writing poetry is just vocabulary. Starting a business is just paperwork.

Creativity is the audacity to believe you should do it in the first place.

It is the irrational, stubborn belief that your specific view of the world, your weirdness, your story deserves to take up space.

We obsess over the finished book, the viral post, the launched product. But the output is just the artifact. The actual creative act is the decision to trust your own voice when every rational signal tells you to stay quiet.

It feels a lot like standing on the edge of that school dance floor. You aren’t worried about the steps; you’re worried about the exposure. You’re terrified you’ll look stupid. You’re terrified you might accidentally put her in a headlock amid the noise and confusion.

But you step out anyway.

Sometimes, we find the right place to rest our hands. Sometimes we don’t. Eventually, both lead us to the same place. One path takes a little longer than the other, yet the detour gives us the stories worth sharing.

That willingness to be awkward, to risk the mess, to believe that you are the one who should be dancing, that is the work.

P.S. Speaking of analog connection...

The Creative Reset is Back for 2026

The Creative Reset 2026: Goals, Manifesto, and Dinner.

We are bringing it back. I am targeting early February for the 2026 Creative Lab Reset, and after the absolute blast we had in 2025, the energy for this one is already high. In the spirit of keeping things tactile and real, we are keeping the circle tight, still strictly limited to 18 people. Just connection and inspiration.

We are elevating the meal this year with an incredible Indigenous Tapas experience. While I’m just waiting on the final nod from the venue, I can tell you this: the dinner guest speaker we’ve lined up is... well, “insanely talented and slightly famous” might be an understatement. It’s going to be a night of serious creativity and great food. I’ll be releasing the tickets next week (hopefully), so keep an eye out as these 18 seats usually sell out the same day (or they did in 2025).

Thinking of adding a Creative Lab Dinner for Melbourne? If you feel you would like to see this in Melbourne, let me know.

Ben
(Email now if you want to lock in your spot
before tickets go on sale ben@benrennie.com)