Over the past two years, I have found it difficult to describe my relationship with dance. It feels phony to claim, “I am a dancer,” because I have not formally danced in so long. “I used to dance” feels even worse because I am not prepared to close that chapter of my life. I usually opt with “I danced for thirteen years,” to capture all the time and dedication I put into my beloved passion, but ultimately, I drifted away.
The COVID-19 pandemic interrupted my senior year as a ballet student. Suddenly, I was forced to trade the sprung marley floors and the barres built into the wall at the studio for the cold tiles in my kitchen and a dining room chair. Seeing myself confined to a box in a Zoom meeting masquerading as a ballet class made me hate the thing I had dedicated twelve years to. Ironically, I knew I was not alone in my feelings of isolation. Finding the motivation to put on tights and a leotard for virtual ballet classes began to seem like an impossible task. Although I finished off the year, I decided that I needed some time off to find the passion that slipped through my fingers.
Starting college and moving to a new city brought a new set of obstacles on my journey back to ballet. Though I could hear ballet calling me from a distance, I hid behind empty excuses: I’m too busy, I’m not familiar with studios in the area, I don’t have a car to drive myself to classes. What I was truly afraid of was getting back in a studio and absolutely hating it. I was afraid that the girl in the mirror would look different. I was afraid her legs would not go as high as they once did. I was afraid that she would stumble out of all her turns despite spending years polishing her technique. I was afraid to disappoint the younger version of myself that spent endless hours, shed blood, sweat, and tears, missed out on time with her friends and family, and pushed herself to her physical and mental limits to get herself where she was. The more time passed since my last class, the more daunting the idea of going back was.
After an entire year of researching studios, I reserved my place in a beginner ballet class that took place the following morning at a local studio. Immediately, I regretted the decision and all of my fears began to seem less hypothetical and more of a reality.
I woke up the next morning and robotically got myself ready for class, worried that if I allowed myself to embrace any feelings, I would want to back out before I even made it to the studio. I took the bus to the studio, still dissociating to tame my demons. As I walked in, I felt the warm embrace of the artistic ambiance. The teacher started the class by acknowledging the nonlinear nature of dance as an adult, something I desperately needed to hear. He gave out the first barre combination and I felt my neck lengthen, my shoulders roll back, my lats activate, my abs engage, and my turnout come from the tops of my legs. I glanced in the mirror and was proud of who I saw. My body certainly did not look the same as it did a few years ago, but yet, there it was, working as hard as ever. After the class, I took the bus back to my apartment and I was physically exhausted, but mentally exhilarated.
I now recognize that the break from ballet was something I needed. Time away proved to me how much I truly enjoy dancing, and how it is an integral part of my life. I also realized that there is no such thing as the right time. I spent so long waiting for the moment I knew for sure that I was ready to return to the studio. It wasn’t until I suddenly found myself in a studio that I figured out that, no matter how long I waited, I would never feel completely prepared.
If there is one thing I took from this experience it is to not be afraid to make the leap. Embrace vulnerability, challenge yourself, and always be kind to yourself. Take breaks when you need to, because burnout can affect you even if you love what you do. Although growth may not be linear, it is constant. You might be surprised to see how far passion takes you!
