As a social worker committed to anti-oppressive, community-driven care, I can’t ignore the violent history of this profession—a history tangled with state control, surveillance, and intervention in marginalized communities.  I often think about what it would look like to create spaces where people don’t need intervention by the state or social work professionals to thrive. Spaces like the kiki ballroom scene offer an answer by embodying an alternative form of care—one that fosters resilience, self-regulation, and a way to process the trauma of Blackness and queerness in a world that marginalizes both.

Ballroom isn’t just a performance space; it’s a therapeutic, cultural, and political landscape that provides tools for healing. When people chant, vogue, and embody categories like realness, they’re not just performing—they’re using their bodies to reassert control and restore balance. These practices stimulate the vagus nerve, a core part of the nervous system that regulates emotional health. When activated, the vagus nerve helps ground us emotionally, allowing for a feeling of calm and control that is both healing and transformative.

From a social work perspective, this focus on the body in ballroom—especially in categories like performance and runway, where physical awareness and control are paramount—directly counters dissociation, a common response to trauma. In ballroom, Black queer people find a profound sense of belonging and self-mastery. This helps participants stay connected to their bodies, combatting the detachment often resulting from navigating systems of oppression.

Ballroom spaces can provide an alternative and enriching model that uplifts and validates Black queer experiences, enhancing existing structures with its emphasis on joy, creativity, and self-determined well-being.

One of the most powerful things about ballroom is how it reframes resilience—not as a badge of survival from suffering, but as something celebratory, joyous, and inherently creative. Traditionally, social work has emphasized resilience, valorizing the ability to endure hardship. However, I find this problematic; resilience shouldn’t be something Black queer people need to cultivate because of oppression. Why should we have to experience suffering to be celebrated as strong?

The kiki ballroom scene disrupts this narrative of resilience as survival and instead celebrates joy, creativity, and the right to live freely and expressively. It offers an alternative framework grounded in Black Joy—a concept from Black queer studies that resists the necessity of enduring pain for growth. Through ballroom, we see that Black queer people don’t need to be “resilient” in the face of harm; we need spaces that allow us to flourish, to celebrate joy without it having to be tethered to suffering.

Recognizing the functions of ballroom, especially within the kiki scene, reveals a vibrant model of community care that not only thrives independently but also complements existing social services. Ballroom addresses core needs—validation, belonging, emotional health—within the community, crafting a rich tapestry of care built on mutual support and resilience rather than dependency. This is a transformative vision of care that empowers Black queer individuals to create and build robust networks that are grounded in their unique cultural contexts. 

Ballroom’s contributions are often invisible to the broader society, which may see it as “just” a subculture. But for those of us within it, ballroom is a self-determined system that prioritizes our autonomy and wellbeing, offering a way for Black queer people to heal and build collective strength. These benefits are no less valid or impactful than those found in state-run services; in fact, they’re often more effective because they are culturally specific, built around shared experiences, and designed for us, by us.

In my role as a social worker, my job is not to bring my clients “into the system” but to amplify the spaces that are already serving them. The kiki scene offers a model for community-driven care that is unmediated, self-regulating, and responsive to the unique experiences of Black queer life. Supporting these spaces means recognizing the cultural and physiological power of ballroom to address trauma, create joy, and foster healing, and it means stepping back to let those within it define its future.

The kiki ballroom scene challenges the social work profession to rethink its role. Instead of intervening as intermediaries, what if social workers became allies to these autonomous spaces, acknowledging and learning from the wisdom they hold? By shifting from intervention to support, we can make space for communities like ballroom to thrive on their terms, to sustain themselves, and to offer real, embodied healing that’s often inaccessible within traditional systems.

This vision isn’t about meeting standards set by the state; it’s about affirming that Black queer lives are enough as they are—fully realized, thriving, and worthy of celebration. It’s a vision of community care that rejects the status quo, centering joy, creativity, and agency, rather than survival alone. And it’s one I believe we should all work to build.