1. The Spider Mama’s Name

Lili’s Instagram is called Black Spider Mama.

The name sounds absurd yet carries a hint of mystery. She explains with a laugh: “I just wanted to shed those pressures and expectations, to have the most casual, most random, most mischievous name possible.”

She says spiders are precise hunters and also wild, resilient creatures — “Others may destroy its web, but it always weaves it back together.” In her eyes, this name is like her spirit animal, a way of resisting fragility and embracing fierce femininity.

2. Before Dancing: The Two Years of Losing Dance

Lili has been dancing since kindergarten. Back then, she always shone on stage—Chinese dance, Latin, and then street dance, each step felt destined.

But fate took a turn when she was fourteen. She contracted myocarditis, and doctors forbade her from dancing for two years. “My body was changing, I was gaining weight, and people looked at me differently,” she recalls. “That was the first time I truly realized what dance meant to me—only through loss do you understand what it is.”

After recovery, she attended university in the State. She initially studied world literature, then switched to psychology, and finally transferred to dance. She studied ballet and modern dance, but at the most “academic” moment, she grew skeptical of the so-called “system”: “They were being abstract for abstraction’s sake, deliberately obscure to make others feel they couldn’t understand.”

She realized she wasn’t pursuing a certain “style,” but rather an authentic feeling—that kind of real vibration, as genuine as sunset or breathing.

3. Learning to Heal in Street Dance’s Family

In Ohio, she found her first real street-dance community—a group of Black dancers who called themselves a Family.

“Family isn’t a crew,” she explains. “A crew performs together. A Family lives together.”

Cypher, Battle, Session — she learned to express, release, and listen with her body. She says: “That intense, angry, repressed energy eventually becomes a form of healing. Its aggressiveness is actually gentle, it’s healing.”

But in this black-dominated circle, she also experienced the awkwardness and conflict woven from culture, gender, and race. She admits: “Sometimes they wouldn’t treat me as an equal. Some teachers would cross boundaries.” She experienced sexual harassment—”I just wanted to learn the culture, but they had other intentions.”

She once fell into confusion and anger because of this, but ultimately chose acceptance and understanding: “You can’t control others; you can only learn to protect yourself. When you accept this reality, you regain power.”

4. The Cost of “Freedom”

When Lili is asked about why she still stays in this chaotic dance world, she answers quickly: “Because it’s free.”

She says the chaos and beauty of the dance world are two sides of the same thing. “Freedom can give birth to what you love and also what you hate. But if you only stay where you won’t get hurt, you’ll never become strong.”

New York, to her, is that kind of wild soil — noisy, chaotic, yet full of vitality. She says with a laugh: “This city is like a womb, nurturing all kinds of things. The key is—you need to know what kind of seed you are.”

5. African Drums and the Rhythm of Breathing

Later, she began learning West African dance. It was a more primal, more intricate world. Twenty drummers playing simultaneously, rhythms overlapping, chaotic, yet precise.

“In African dance, no one counts five-six-seven-eight,” she says. “You have to listen to the drums to know when to start, when to change movements.”

She loves that feeling of having “no safety net”—”It forces you to listen, to feel. That sense of rhythm is like life itself.”

She believes dance has never been about stacking techniques, but about breathing together with the earth, air, and music. “I’ve found that those who dance best are actually like babies — they’re completely immersed in a movement, and that pure energy is divinity.”

6. The Moment of “Stopping Dance”

“If you start counting beats, thinking about how to dance, at that moment you’ve actually stopped dancing.”

She talks about her understanding of “dance”—”It’s not you dancing; it’s letting your body do what it does. Walking, breathing, sweating, closing your eyes… these are all dance. As long as you’re flowing, you’re alive.”

She laughs softly, a laugh containing the serenity of letting go.

7. “I’m Not Trying to Be a Good Dancer”

When asked about her view on “becoming a good dancer,” Lili shakes her head: “‘Good’ is a meaningless word. Comparison is meaningless.”

She explains: “I don’t feel I’m better now than before. I’m just different. My dance then was me at that time; my dance now is me now. Both are real, both precious.”

She even refuses to use “progress” to describe change. “If you say I’m better now, it means you’re denying who I used to be.” She pauses, “I don’t want to deny any version of myself.”

8. Expressing Authentically

Lili speaks with the clarity of someone who has lived many lives in one body. When she talks, she often leaps from the physical to the spiritual, from the personal to the universal.

But ultimately, all her answers return to one word: truthfulness.

“When I stop judging myself, I also stop judging others,” she says. “When I find someone interesting, it’s because I am too. All the power is in my own hands.”

At the end of this podcast episode, she says softly—

“If you want to dance, first allow yourself to be a complete person.”

🔗 Follow

* ins@bigblackspidermama

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com