Improvisation is a form that has intrigued, inspired, and terrified me since I first formally studied it at The Washington School of Ballet in 2016. Over the years, I inadvertently cultivated my own improvisation practice as a way of documenting my movement at various points in my undergraduate training. I would set up a camera in my dorm room, play the song that was stuck in my head, and just start moving. I began this practice in 2020, when my bedroom was the only place I could be maskless and feel somewhat normal. Now, three years later, my newest bedroom has become the site of experimentation, creativity, self-reflection, and my practice-as-research project.My research question evolved throughout the project. Initially, I asked: How do I perceive myself internally (mind) and externally (body) through improvisation? How do others perceive my character through movement? My mind-body connection has been a lifelong battle; for many years as a ballet dancer, I directly associated my self-worth with the perception of my physical body by myself and others. I have spent four years on a healing journey, turning this mind-body connection into a tangible collection of colorful mood charts, improvisation videos, and diary entries that channel the energy of my thoughts into productive, creative, healthier outlets. This project began as a study of myself, questioning authenticity and perception, but it became a more intimate self-portrait of my most vulnerable moments in my safe space. Does more vulnerability equal more authenticity? How do my thoughts and feelings translate into physical movement? My research took the form of short-form improvisation practice that was recorded on my phone in my bedroom. I did not see my reflection in the viewfinder nor in any mirrors in my room to avoid the temptation to perform a contrived visual aesthetic. I have a song on repeat in my head every day, so I played whichever song was on my mind to ground my movement. I freewrote in my journal immediately following the improvisation, recalling what thought patterns occurred during the movement practice. Finally, I watched the video and took notes about what I saw and what new ideas came from witnessing the visualization of my thoughts.My subject shifted from perception to portraiture after hearing Tamara’s lecture about self/portrait performances, specifically Rineke Dijkstra’s videos of young people dancing in clubs (Tomić-Vajagić, 2014). I was transfixed by how the dancers found their groove in front of a camera, knowing they were being filmed yet trying to channel the raw energy cultivated in a club. Tamara observed how Dijkstra captured the moments in “the subjects’ inner lives” when “they have dropped all pretense of a pose,” as Dijkstra was quoted in Guzman, 2012 (Tomić-Vajagić, 2014, 84). I became interested in trying to capture my own inner life without the pressures of trying to perform my personality. I also wanted to document how I felt while moving versus how I felt while watching myself move, being both the subject and the witness.I drew inspiration from a dance research performance I participated in at Connecticut College in March, 2023. My professor, Shani Collins, brought six dance majors, including myself, to Ghana to train in West African dance with local companies and learn about the rich cultural history of the nation and its painful history of the transatlantic slave trade. When we returned to the U.S., our research culminated in a performance open to the public where we performed our findings. One section of the show was the “witness circle,” a form of the cypher found in jazz, hip hop, street dance, and other Afro-Diasporic forms (Collins, 2023). We knelt in a circle on stage and took turns taking the center of the circle, closing our eyes, and expressing however we felt in that moment while moving to the beat of the live drummers. Those not dancing would witness this movement, moving the circle to maintain a bubble of security and love as the performer freely moved. This was the most powerful moment of the show for me as a performer, and I can imagine for the audience as well. Before the show, we would rehearse in an empty studio with only the cast, and we often discussed how it would feel to perform a witness circle for an audience of non-participating viewers without it becoming too “performative” or feeling too vulnerable. Closing our eyes helped to focus our improvisation internally as opposed to being visually aware of all the other eyes on us. Throughout my practice-as-research work, I remembered the embodied experience of witness circles, being surrounded by women who I built a loving, trusting sisterhood with as we traveled the world together, and tried to emulate that in my solo practice. I became my own witness and supporter, mentally, emotionally and physically.