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All I ever wanted to be was a dancer. It was the only thing in life I felt all the
way down into my soul. My heart felt the
music. My body incarnated emotion with a grace I couldn’t seem to find outside the studio. Every step and turn cost me every ounce of strength
I possessed. I pushed myself to the
limit and then some, yet somehow there was always more.
I sacrificed everything in my attempts to be the best. I saw my flaws and ran them over with a
fervent belief that I could become whoever I set my mind to be. It wasn’t to win a trophy or to get into the
best company or to impress anybody—I did it for me.
See I was fearless on the dance floor. The hours and days and weeks of practice made
the scrutiny of the spotlight intoxicating.
Whether dancing a solo or in tandem with other dancers, all I knew was I
felt most alive when everything in me—my strength, flexibility, grace, passion—was
put to the ultimate test.
Yesterday I put on a leotard again for the first time in
almost nine years. That was the skin I wore
for most of my life growing up. I was
more comfortable in a leo and tights than I was in my own skin, much less any
other outfit, fashionable or otherwise.
It was strange, wearing a leotard again.
I instantly saw the girl I was back then: innocent, courageous, blissfully
blind to the journey I would embark upon in the following decade.
It made me cry. Like,
sob. I wept for the dreams that haven’t
become reality. I wept for the failures
and disappointments that I’ve blamed myself for. I wept for the seasons of loneliness and
aimlessness that would come, sometimes bringing me one step away from breaking.
Funny though, none of that crossed my mind back then. I marched forward, never looking back. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a dancer. I didn’t see the thicker thighs; I saw defined
muscle and a graceful line that went all the way down to my toes. I didn’t see the baby face that looked even
rounder when my hair was slicked back; I saw the perfect ballet bun that stayed
firm as a rock through every fuete, pirouette and grande jete. I didn’t see the perfectionist who was always
way too hard on herself; I knew what I wanted and did whatever it took to get
it.
I’m a little fuller in the hips these days. I’m not as flexible as I was and I still don’t
have good feet for pointe. I could
probably dance like that again if I really wanted to, though it would cost me a
lot more than it did back then.
But I can tell you one thing, I’ll always be passionate. My passion just keeps growing. It’s expanded into regions beyond just
beautiful dancing. I’m passionate about
addressing injustice, giving people space and permission to be themselves,
learning new things, making honest music, loving with my whole heart. I’ve got a lot to learn, especially when it
comes to being vulnerable. It’s hard to
let people in sometimes. I guess that
can be a good thing but, hey. Like I said,
I have a long way to go.
I always loved when I’d finally feel the sweat running down
my back during class. It was like a victory. A small one, just for that moment. It didn’t mean I had mastered my routine, but it
did mean I was headed in the right direction. A hundred sweaty rehearsals ended in one electrifying performance—and that made it all worth it.
