Helen Ferris Leary — Sistar of the Dance

I still remember the first time I met Helen as vividly as if it were yesterday. It had been a long day after work, and a few girlfriends and I went to the famous Bodrum Turkish restaurant in Newmarket. I had never been there before and was so excited. We sat down, surrounded by the rich, warm atmosphere of the Orient, soaking it all in.

Then the music began — beautiful, unusual, hypnotic.

Through the restaurant door came a vision of a goddess. My jaw dropped. She was decked in golden coins, glittering and shimmering, with a golden crown framing her smiling face. Her coin belts trinkled with every graceful step. She looked like a goddess of the Nile, and I watched her, utterly mesmerised.

That goddess was Helen.

She danced around the room radiating joy. Then she pulled me up to dance with her — and of course, having a Polynesian background, I joined in with my fast island hips! She laughed, complimented me, and encouraged me to take up belly dance. I had no idea that moment would plant the seed for a lifelong friendship.

Five years later, around 2001, I reconnected with Helen through a friend who was taking belly dance classes with her. I joined, and from that day on, we became “nesian Sistars” — Pacific Island sisters of dance, laughter, and dress-ups. We shared a love of creating our own personal style, encouraging each other to express ourselves boldly and joyfully.

Helen and I were like two hybrid fruits growing from the same tree — different, yet perfectly complementary. We shared the same quirky sense of humour, often acting out silly skits and laughing until we cried. We both had fiery tempers too, but more often than not, we turned them into jokes.

What I loved most about Helen was her courage to be authentic — to embrace all aspects of herself. Through dance, she explored not only feminine sensuality but also raw inner strength. She was unafraid to express the deeper layers of her psyche that society often discourages in women. That, to me, was part of Helen’s spiritual journey — breaking down old conditioning, shedding layers like the phoenix rising from the ashes, becoming new again.

Helen had a brilliant way with words.

She called herself Dr Chemopatra, and it suited her perfectly.

Helen’s brilliance extended far beyond the stage. Despite living with dyslexia — and at a time when academic pathways were far less inclusive — she undertook a journey that took her over ten years to complete. She became one of the very first people in New Zealand to study the anthropology of dance at university level, ultimately earning her doctorate.

Her doctoral thesis focused on Tongan dance, approached not as performance alone but as living cultural knowledge — history, lineage, identity, and soul expressed through movement. In doing so, Helen helped bridge worlds: the academic and the embodied, the intellectual and the intuitive, the scholar and the dancer.

She proved — definitively — that dance is not “just” creative expression, but a sophisticated language worthy of deep study and respect. Helen was not only a gifted performer; she was a pioneer, a thinker, and a cultural scholar of the highest order. A truly clever cookie, in every sense of the word.

She was witty, imaginative, and deeply intelligent — creative in her writing, poetry, dissertations, and reflections. I often encouraged her to write a book about her own descent and rebirth — her dance through the seven veiled gates of illusion, where she discovered her true self beyond the ego.

Even during her cancer journey, Helen remained radiant. She wore glamorous wigs and turned up to hospital appointments dressed to the nines, impressing doctors and nurses alike with her positivity and flair. Give Helen a lemon, and she wouldn’t just make lemonade — she’d make champagne.

Her courage amazed me. I remember rushing to her home after her first round of treatment. She was pale and weak, lying in bed, yet smiling. “I’ve got this, sister,” she told me. “Don’t worry — I’ll see you in a week when the nausea passes.”

She did that for nearly ten years, when most people would have given up after three. She turned her illness into a teacher — a path of transformation.

Helen often said her illness was a gift that helped her find truth within herself. She accepted change with grace, embracing the cycles of growth, loss, and renewal. We would talk for hours about the soul’s journey, sharing wisdom drawn from everyday life.

She loved to say, “We dress up like our six-year-old selves, hon!” And it was true — that playful innocence never left her. She was sophisticated and intelligent, yet full of wonder and mischief. We shared countless adventures together, like the day our dance sisters Amanda, Tania, Helen, and I visited a Chinese antique shop on K’ Road and emerged wearing dragon-embroidered gowns and antique hats with fake ponytails. We walked down the street laughing hysterically, stopping traffic, being asked by strangers where on earth we were going.

Helen could make fashion out of anything. She’d pull a skirt over her head and somehow turn it into couture. A scarf became a turban; a scrap of fabric became high art. Creativity flowed through her endlessly.

Her dyslexia gifted her a unique way of seeing the world — a free mind that could never be fenced in. And her love for her son, Kahu, shone through everything. She adored him. Her face would light up whenever she spoke of him, filled with pride and joy. He followed in his mother’s footsteps and became a champion Salsa dancer in Australia bringing great joy and pride for Helen.

Helen and her husband Rob shared a rare partnership — quirky, loyal, and grounded in love. Two creative souls walking through life as a team, complementing each other beautifully.

Helen was a true artist — dancer, teacher, scholar, performer. From her early years performing with her family troupe to her international career as an authentic Raks Sharqi dancer, she embodied grace and passion. She danced in restaurants, weddings, and nightclubs in Australia and London, teaching countless dancers in New Zealand and beyond.

She loved improvisation more than choreography — dancing in the moment, letting emotion lead movement. Even when illness confined her to bed, we would FaceTime each other from bed to bed, speaking about the deeper meanings of movement, emotion, and life. Sometimes we’d dress up and dance for each other on screen, laughing like children again.

Helen was an enigma — layered with grace, strength, fire, and mystery. She could command a room, yet also humbly care for others. She lovingly looked after her mother’s sister, setting aside her “Queen’s crown” to serve when needed.

In recent years, I watched my beloved Sistar transform from glamorous performer to wise sage. She showed extraordinary resilience and faith through pain and uncertainty. She told me recently that she was at peace — ready either to heal or to pass, without fear.

Helen lived — and died — in grace. She practiced faith, hope, joy, and love in the face of suffering: a spiritual mastery few ever achieve.

And so now, the music hushes. The stage is quiet. Our footsteps echo across the spaces of time. I look back with gratitude for the creativity and joy we shared. We looked into each other’s eyes and truly knew.

In the distance, a light calls us home. I see her turn and wave — smiling, dancing in a field of flowers, youthful again. The sun is shining. There is no more night.

We will meet again, my sister, when we too cross over.

Helen — thank you for being the colourful, creative, unique soul I had the privilege to know. You were the sister I needed.

I love you, my Sistar of the Dance. Dance on.

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