I found Ecstatic Dance UK at a vulnerable time in my life. I had recently been diagnosed with ADHD and autism, and my business had gone bankrupt. I was exhausted and disoriented, trying to rebuild my connection with myself and others. The dance seemed to offer a way to be present in my body without having to explain myself too much, and at first that’s what it gave me. It felt welcoming and inclusive, and it presented itself as a safe space for expression, connection and belonging.
Over time, though, my experiences there had a serious effect on my mental health. I had panic attacks, long periods of disturbed sleep, intrusive thoughts, crying spells and suicidal thoughts. I withdrew from people and felt profoundly confused. I had never experienced anything like it in my forty years, and for many months I felt unable to function.
That made me ask whether the freedom promised on the dance floor came with real accountability behind the scenes. What had felt communal began to look like it ran on informal power, personal relationships and commercial interests. I started to wonder who decided who belonged, how conflicts were handled, and whether the language of safety and healing applied equally to everyone.
The appeal of conscious community
People come to Ecstatic Dance for more than music. Many are dealing with trauma, anxiety, loneliness, grief, burnout or a breakup, and want somewhere they can be accepted without fitting conventional social norms. Neurodivergent people like me may find wordless movement and structured group rituals easier than ordinary social settings.
These communities also attract people who want the look of healing more than the slow, unglamorous work. The language, the clothes, the rituals and the identity of being conscious or trauma-informed are easy to pick up. Someone can present as having done deep inner work without ever facing their own entitlement, shame, envy, volatility or need for control. Titles like therapist, coach, healer or space holder can reflect real training. They can also serve as social capital, giving someone status and trust before anyone has seen how they behave when it counts.
Someone can present as having done deep inner work without ever facing their own entitlement, shame, envy, volatility or need for control.
The first breakdown
In summer 2024 I became involved with a dancer who expressed unusually intense affection very quickly. Within a short time she was writing that her mind was still processing the fact that I existed, that she felt connected to me on levels she hadn’t known were possible, that she thought I would be the love of her life, and that I was one of the most remarkable people she had ever met.
Those words hit hard, partly because she presented herself as a UKCP psychotherapy trainee. That made me more inclined to trust her emotional language and believe she was entering our intimacy seriously and with care.
Then the intensity turned into distance, boundary testing and what felt like a discard. Someone who had talked about an exceptional closeness began to behave as though I barely existed, and as if I had done something wrong. Later I saw her openly making out on the dance floor with the Bath House’s former manager, in a way that is unusual for the space. What hurt was the contrast. I had been drawn into a story of unusual intimacy, and then the connection vanished without warning.
I had panic attacks for the first time in my life. I was so overwhelmed that I flew to my parents’ house in Portugal on a ticket I bought three hours before take-off.
The second breakdown
The second experience was more serious. I had a brief relationship with another dancer who also presented herself publicly as a UKCP psychotherapy trainee. In my account, it involved:
- intense idealisation
- future-faking
- triangulation
- attempts to make me jealous
- ambiguity
- the silent treatment
- character attacks
- blame-shifting
- the use of personal vulnerabilities I had told her in confidence
- body-therapy work on me early in our dating, logged as training hours
Early on, she shared a painful part of her own history with me. I took it as an invitation to intimacy, and I became more protective of her. Near the end, she told me it was no longer a major issue, because a single exercise on her training course had largely resolved it. That troubled me more than anything else she said. Healing from deep trauma is usually slow and uneven, and it rarely comes from one exercise, however powerful it feels. Coming from someone training to be a psychotherapist, that claim misrepresents what trauma is and what recovering from it involves.
She also described my sexual performance as “mechanical” and “performative“, even though she knew about my own past sexual trauma. It felt like a deliberate attempt to destabilise me. She asked for space, yet seemed open to seeing other people. When I challenged any of this, my concerns were reframed as trauma, projection or dysregulation, and my attempts to get clarity were called patronising, pressure or instability. Therapeutic language had created the intimacy. Later, the same language was used to minimise, judge and avoid accountability.
The same pattern, twice
Looking back, what unsettles me most is how similar the two relationships were. Both started with a flood of validation. Each dancer suddenly seemed to love the same music I did, and each told me she considered herself neurodivergent too. I felt seen in a way I rarely had. I had only just been diagnosed and was still working out what that meant for me, so it was very hard to resist.
Then came the boundary testing. As long as I complied, the warmth continued. Once I stopped, the discard came quickly, with little explanation, and I was left wondering what I had done wrong.
In forty years, I had never been through anything like this. I’ve had relationships, breakups and difficult people in my life, and I haven’t always been blameless in them… But I had never been through this sequence, and never this kind of harm.
In forty years, I had never been through anything like this. I’ve had relationships, breakups and difficult people in my life, and I haven’t always been blameless in them. I’ve made mistakes, hurt people, and had to own my part when things went wrong. But I had never been through this sequence, and never this kind of harm. Then it happened twice, close together, with two women from the same community, both training to become therapists.
I can’t know what either of them intended, and I’m not trying to diagnose anyone. But I’ve come to think this says as much about the community as it does about them. Spaces like this draw people with deep emotional wounds, and some are drawn to train as therapists or healers for the same reason. Training in therapy doesn’t mean those wounds are healed. When wounds are still open, they can play out in relationships with the very vulnerable people the space attracts.
Seeking accountability
The second dancer never acknowledged how her behaviour affected me, so I looked elsewhere for accountability. Paragraph 32 of the UKCP Code of Ethics asks practitioners to “act in a way which upholds the profession’s reputation and promotes public confidence in the profession and its members, including outside of your professional life as a UKCP practitioner.” Trauma disclosures, psychological language and body-based work had all been part of what happened, and she presented herself publicly as a UKCP trainee, so I believed this deserved ethical scrutiny. UKCP took my concerns seriously and directed me to her training school as the right place for a formal complaint.
I also told Richard Batts, who organises Ecstatic Dance UK, that I found her behaviour deceptive and manipulative. He was sympathetic about my symptoms, but my impression was that he saw it as ordinary relationship drama and suggested I should just “let things go”. He didn’t seem to consider that someone might use their position in the dance space as a shield against accountability.
Banned without due process
After an event on 29 July, Richard told me I was no longer welcome at his events. Three women had said they didn’t feel safe with me there and would boycott if I came. I was given no account of the behaviour behind this, no dates, no incidents, no evidence and no chance to respond. The decision was immediate, indefinite and final.
Richard also told me he had known some of the women for more than five years, and that a boycott would hurt the business. As far as I know, nobody had seen me behave inappropriately at the events. I was left worried that the decision rested less on anyone’s conduct than on the financial risk of losing established participants, and on long-standing friendships. I can’t prove that was the reason.
When I raised concerns about conduct that had seriously affected my mental health, I was told, in effect, to let it go. When concerns were raised about me, they excluded me and didn’t hear me.
- WHAT I DID
- incidents
- evidence
- Chance to respond: [None]
Whose safety matters?
Richard repeatedly said his main responsibility was making women feel safe, but he applied that principle selectively. I understand that some women asked him not to let the Bath House’s former manager attend the dances. As far as I know, nothing comparable followed. I can’t say why, and I don’t want to imply facts I can’t establish. Still, the difference is hard to ignore. He was part of the venue’s wider social network. I am a Brazilian immigrant with no comparable status, influence or usefulness in the community. Some people carry more social capital than others, and that can decide whose presence is tolerated and whose is treated as expendable.
Who holds the space holder accountable?
Richard repeatedly told me that his main responsibility was making women feel safe in the space. If that’s true, the first place to apply it would be his own conduct. Richard’s own personal romantic relationships with various participants raise an obvious conflict of interest. I can’t assess the private details, and I don’t claim to know his intentions. What concerns me is the overlap with his role. He sets the tone, controls access and may be seen as having special authority or insight.
A woman who gets involved with him isn’t dating just another dancer. She is dating the person who control the space. If the relationship goes wrong, or she feels pressured or uncomfortable, where does she go? The person she would normally take a safety concern to is the person the concern is about.
In my opinion, someone who cares about women’s safety would know that the dance can leave people unusually open and emotionally receptive. So the person holding the space has a greater responsibility to keep clear boundaries and not exploit an unbalenced power dynamic. Concern for women’s safety that stops at the organiser’s own relationships isn’t a safety policy.
Where do people go when the concern is about Richard himself?
Where do people go when the concern is about Richard himself?
Qualified to hold space?
With everything a space holder is responsible for, you might expect the role to require some background in psychology, mental health, trauma, or human development. As far as I know, Richard has none of it. What he has is a successful business model that he replicated from elsewhere. That’s a good commercial instinct, but it isn’t training in safeguarding, conflict resolution, or caring for vulnerable people.
Ideally, a space holder would have some wisdom. However, in my opinion, Richard’s deepest insight is merely a matter of saying, “Let’s take a deep breath.” While he may lack insight, he more than makes up for it with his apparent humility. His need for applause is hard to miss, as he repeatedly insists on a ‘love shower’ so dancers can show their appreciation for his efforts.
A good reminder: being able to spin tunes doesn’t make you a wise, impartial space holder.
When community becomes a marketplace
Coaching, therapy, circles, trainings, and retreats all run within the same overlapping network, so personal, professional, and financial relationships are hard to separate. Anyone who depends on that network for clients or referrals has every reason not to criticise the organiser or influential members.
It also shapes how people explain problems. When something goes wrong, the conversation turns to the individual: your triggers, your projections, your unfinished inner work. “What is your responsibility in this?” is a fair question in a therapy room. In a community, it can be a way to avoid asking who made the decision, who had a conflict of interest, and whether the process was fair. That’s what happened in my case.
Unpaid labour and open finances
With around 150 dancers a week and an estimated average ticket price of £18.47, we can estimate the events bring in roughly £2,770 a week in ticket sales. That’s before venue hire, DJs, tax and other costs, so it isn’t profit. It is still a substantial, regular income for a small business.
So it’s fair to question the ethics of relying on volunteers who help with setup, welcoming, promotion or supporting other dancers for free. Volunteering for a community project is one thing. Giving unpaid labour to a for-profit business is another, especially one running in a council-owned building. The finances should be open to anyone who asks, and above all to the volunteers whose work helps keep the events running.
No meaningful response from the Bath House
I raised my concerns with Charlie Duckworth at the Bath House. The reply didn’t address the lack of due process, the inconsistent handling of safety concerns, or the conflicts of interest. It seemed to treat the whole thing as a personal dispute.
That’s hard to square with how Community Sauna Baths, the social enterprise that runs the Bath House, presented the Ecstatic Dance community when it sought the lease from Hackney Council: as a central part of the project’s social value. Under its agreement with the council, it runs the building on a not-for-profit basis to “ensure it continues to be run in the interests of the community”. When concerns were raised, the position seemed to shift, and the answer was that private organisers can set their own policies. If the community mattered when Community Sauna Baths was seeking access to a public building, why did it stop mattering when participants raised concerns about how that space was run?
Towards a community-owned dance space
A better model would be a community-owned dance space, with no single organiser controlling who gets in, setting the culture, or deciding whose concerns count. What could that look like?
- The people holding the space have real training or experience in mental health, psychology or personal development, not just a good playlist and a nice vibe.
- If you have a problem with someone, including the people running it, you can talk to an independent person.
- Nobody gets thrown out without being told why and getting a chance to give their side, unless someone is in real, immediate danger.
- The money is out in the open: what comes in, what goes out, and where the rest ends up.
- Volunteers know what they’re giving their time to, and they get something real back.
A model like this would suit a council-owned building far better. Safety would come from shared responsibility and power spread across many people, so anyone could raise a concern without risking their place in the community. It wouldn’t depend on who you know.
I’m writing to Hackney Council to report what happened and to push for real change in how the space is run. The Bath House is a public building, and the people who dance there should have a say in what happens inside it. If any of this sounds familiar, or you have your own experience of the space, I’d like to hear from you.
Right of reply: If you are mentioned or referred to in this article, or feel affected by it, and want to share your side, send me your account. I will publish it alongside this piece.
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