And 5, 6, 7, 8
A journey reflecting on my first love of dance and rediscovery the spark as an adult
I always felt safe onstage. The thrill of being all dressed up in a new costume, walking backstage and dancing on that stage for an audience with my friends always brings a smile to my face. // Photo courtesy of Riley Young
I grew up in a cloud of hairspray and covered in glitter and rhinestones. Dressing up made me feel like a princess in a Disney movie. The performances were like the cherry on top of a sundae.
Being a competitive dancer was not the after-school activity my parents ever envisioned for me. Both of them grew up being athletes from a young age and became starters for their high school varsity teams. When I was 6-months-old I was already in baby swim classes and at the age of 3 I was hitting tennis balls with my dad after work.
Even now I still love playing tennis and swimming when the sun’s out. But nothing ever seemed as natural to me as moving my body to the beat of the music.
From the age of 3 to 11 years old, my dance studio became my new-found home. My dance coaches felt like my parents, the older dancers were the older siblings I never had and the bond I had with my teammates was unbreakable.
The environment at my dance studio was supportive. However, like the infamous Abby Lee Miller, my dance coach loved having a favorite dancer and letting everyone on the team know.
This type of favoritism led to some unhealthy competition between my teammates and me as we got older. This would appear in song choices for solos, nicknames, and accusations of lying if a dancer thought they had an injury. I experienced the latter.
“It was really good because it felt like a little community family,” my mom said. She was so happy to see me, a once shy and quiet kid, come out of my shell despite the constant critical feedback getting thrown in my direction.
My mom was always weary of how this atmosphere would affect me and wondered if I would become accustom to this level of negativity at such a young age. Deep down, seeing me happy and becoming stronger in the face of negativity, my mom knew that this experience will shape me into the woman I am today.
In my bank of memories, I can still remember flashes of the studio that was my home for years. The faint creaking of the smooth tattered wood floor. The blur of bodies following with the melody of a 2000s hit song. The semicircle of moms watching their children through the two-way mirror in the lobby as I rush to the bathroom to change into the clothes my mom packed in my bag.
There was always a person that I can always recognize in those memories, and it was Chloe.
For most of my time at the studio, Chloe and I were inseparable. She became the sister I never had. I never felt I was competing or comparing myself to her. We were equals in every sense of the way.
When I completed my first solo at age 8, I was a nervous wreck. Writing this brings back the same panic I had back then. My palms were sweating. I felt tears swell under my false eyelashes and my brain wouldn’t stop shouting my insecurities. “I’m going to forget this routine”, “I better not drop that cane”, and “ I’m not good enough.” My brain went still as I felt someone hug me from behind.
It was Chloe trying her best to make sure my nerves calmed. Having her there backstage made me feel the confidence that was buried underneath the well of doubt and negativity.
Even with the spotlight on me on the dark and empty stage, I never was truly alone.
However, not all friendship lasts forever.
This was a hard concept that was difficult for me to grasp as a kid. I felt Chloe’s departure was the end of communication.
Over the years, Chloe continued dancing throughout the studio circuit and through high school. I thought my own dance career would mirror Chloe’s but time was not on my side.
When I was 10-years-old, I suffered a grade two tear in my right medial meniscus. I went to doctors who told me I absolutely could not dance until we knew for certain that my knee could function in everyday life versus the strain of dancing on it for 17 hours a week. I was so worried about disappointing my coaches and teammates, that I tried my best to push through the pain.
During rehearsals, I wasn’t able to go through the motions of the dance without the twisting and painful popping in my knee. My lack of motion led to my coach having me do push-ups as punishment for making the routine look sloppy. Weeks went on and I continued to dance until the ultimate pop of my knee tore 97% of my meniscus and wedged itself behind my kneecap, locking my leg at a 130-degree angle.
Sports injuries, for people of all ages, take a toll on a body both physically and mentally. Texas Health Resources say these injuries in children can provoke many mental health issues, including anxiety and depression.
“One of the scariest things of the whole entire thing for me was when you were actually going in for surgery,” my mom said. “And laying on the gurney and you all have all these tubes and like your hair is in a net, prepping for surgery.”
My mom became my rock through my recovery process, she was everything I could have asked for and more. While I worried my dance career was over, my mom was also trying to put on a brave face for me to hide her own fear.
Recovering from an injury of that caliber at 11-years-old made me feel so empty I didn’t know how to cope with myself or the loss of my team. My sense of community had vanished with that last pop and I felt that burning flame inside me dwindle into a small flickering spark.
“I was really really upset about it, but I had to kind of be strong for you,” my mom said. “ I also wanted to get you back doing it again because people tend to build fear.”
The journey back to the dance floor was difficult because I did have fear. Over time it has diminished, but like the scar on my knee, I have a smaller scar that is marked by the fear of enduring that kind of pain again.
Over the past 10 years, I still have a small spark that is searching for a way to shine again.
I still find myself tap dancing in the aisles of the grocery store, recreating different dances from my past in the kitchen or dancing with my friends.
I thought ending my college experience would be a good way to revive my childhood hobby and find a place for it in my adult life.
As I walked up the wooden steps of the revamped dance theater over Bellingham Cider Company downtown, I looked out the window seeing the sun setting over the bay. I felt a sense of calm and familiarity sweep over me as I walked into the small dance studio. The sound of young dancers dancing to Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” The familiar smell of the old, wooden floors filled my brain. I turned over my shoulder to sign-up for the adult beginner ballet class. As I waited for the class to start, a group of giddy pre-teens sat to switch out of their well-worn jazz shoes into sandals.
As they filtered out to the studio lobby, I found my place at the ballet barre. My muscles knew before my brain knew what to do. As the class progressed, my rusty movements became more graceful. This time around I did not feel the need to be perfect. It was okay for me to not stick a pirouette or wobble in relevé. As we went across the room in groups of two, I felt that scar on my heart disappear. I ended this class with a sense of closure rather than a start of a new chapter. Looking at this experience allowed me to close this box slightly.
I say slightly because I learned it is okay to be nostalgic about a thing that may be lost. It is okay for moments to become memories. It made me feel nostalgic seeing the sense of community and bond these girls share through the bond that may last them the rest of their lives. Seeing those girls laughing and fighting over the last skittle in the jar made me feel that it is okay that these moments may not last forever, because they will forever live on in my mind.