Dancing Through the Darkness: A Conversation with Ash from Sass and Soul

Some conversations stay with you long after they end — not because they’re comfortable, but because they’re real. 

 That’s exactly what happened when I sat down with Ash Barchard, the powerhouse behind Sass and Soul Dance. Our Mental Health Chats are all about breaking stigma through honest talk, and this one was no exception. 

Ash and I started on journey at the same time on TikTok, both trying to build spaces that felt safe, creative, and real. She’s known for her explosive energy and her infectious laugh, but beneath that confidence is a woman who’s had to fight hard for her peace. 

We began where every chat begins, with the question,  

“What does mental health mean to you?” 

Ash didn’t hesitate. “Honestly,” she said, “I think societies got it twisted. People hear ‘mental health’ and think depression, panic attacks, breakdowns. But mental health is just being human. It’s our emotions - it’s part of the body like the lungs or the heart.” 

That perspective hit home for me. Because she’s right! Mental health isn’t just the bad days. It’s the full emotional spectrum, the laughter, the confusion, the moments when you’re doing your best just to keep showing up. 

Ash’s work through Sass and Soul has been about normalising that truth. Her classes celebrate every shape, every scar, every wobble. It’s dance as self-expression, not performance. “We’re so conditioned to view our bodies through criticism,” she said. “But when you move, you remember what it feels like to belong inside your body again.” 

As the conversation deepened, Ash opened about her past — an abusive childhood, growing up in fear, and attempting to take her own life when she was just nine. Listening to her share that took my breath away. 

There’s a stillness that happens when someone tells you something so raw. You can feel the strength it took to survive it — and even more, the strength it takes to speak it. 

Her life, as she described it, had been grey for years. She was kidnapped, controlled, watched, silenced.  

“There was no colour when I was eight or nine,” she said. “Everything was fear.” 

It’s hard to comprehend how a child can endure that and still grow into someone who gives so much light. But that’s what makes Ash remarkable — she’s not interested in pity; she’s interested in purpose. 

When she teaches, she’s not just guiding choreography — she’s teaching self-trust. “People think I’m strong because I smile through everything,” she said. “But strength isn’t smiling. Strength is staying when every part of you wants to disappear.” 

At one point, I shared something of my own — a truth I’ve rarely said aloud.  

I spoke about being raped - though, on TikTok, I had to say “shmaped” because the algorithm flags the real word. The censorship of our pain felt symbolic of the silence survivors live in. You can be bleeding inside, but the world would rather you whisper and hide it behind words that don’t get you in trouble. 

Ash’s response was gentle and fierce at once. “You’re not alone,” she said. “And you don’t have to carry it in shame.” 

It reminded me that healing isn’t linear or private. Sometimes it happens in dialogue - in that quiet moment when someone simply says, “I see you.” 

Together, we talked about how trauma shapes love. How we both had to relearn safety - in our bodies, in relationships, even in joy. We spoke about how art, movement, and conversation can reopen doors that pain tried to close. 

Ash described herself as an empath - someone who feels the emotions of everyone around her.  

“I used to carry people’s pain home with me,” she said. “I’d coach or teach all day and then cry for the stories I’d heard.” 

I understood that deeply. When your purpose is helping others heal, you risk absorbing their hurt. Ash has learned to build boundaries through compassion rather than walls. “I can be a safe space,” she said, “but I have to remember it’s not my job to fix people. It’s my job to remind them they can fix themselves.” 

That resonated so strongly with what I try to do through Mental Health Chats. We’re not therapists; we’re humans trying to remind each other that being human is okay. 

Ash told me she’s 36 now — almost three decades since that grey childhood — and that life is finally full of colour again.  

She laughs loudly. She dances wildly. She’s raising her son with compassion instead of fear. She’s built a community that celebrates bodies, voices, and survival stories. 

When she dances, it’s not about perfection — it’s about liberation.  

“When people walk into my classes, they often apologise for existing,” she said. “By the end, they walk out taller.” 

It made me think about how rare it is to see healing expressed through joy. We often talk about therapy, medication, meditation — but joy itself is medicine. 

As we wrapped up, I thanked Ash for her openness. These chats are never rehearsed; they unfold like conversations between old friends. That’s what makes them powerful. 

Ash said something that’s still echoing in my mind: “Imagine a world where we all just admitted that we’re human.”  

Because that’s really it, isn’t it? The stigma around mental health comes from pretending we’re not. Pretending we’re fine. Pretending strength means silence. 

But the truth - and what Ash embodies - is that strength looks like honesty. It looks like tears in between laughter. It looks like a dance class where women rediscover their worth. It looks like a conversation where two people say, me too, and the world feels a little less heavy. 

Every episode of Mental Health Chats reminds me why I started this series. We live in a world of filters and highlight reels, but underneath, we’re all just trying to make it through. 

Ash’s story - and her light - prove that we can survive the darkest beginnings and still find something beautiful on the other side. 

For me, this chat wasn’t about pain. It was about power.

The power to speak.

The power to dance.

The power to live, fully, without apology. 

And maybe that’s what mental health really is - 

 The art of coming back to yourself. 

Written by Uncle Tatt Host of Mental Health Chats and Between the Notes