I wore my hair in a slicked-back bun today, a style my mirror hadn’t seen on me in years.
A part of the process will always be muscle memory — a counter-clockwise twist and four pins marking the shape of an X, one of the many traditions instilled in me through years of competitive dance.
Suddenly, I was 14 again, watching myself through the studio mirror.
Growing up as a dancer complicates the already complicated process of growing up as a girl. You learn to base your ideas of success on century-old expectations, encouraged by seemingly century-old teachers. You spend most evenings between four studio walls, your reflection following you with every turn. You are never just a dancer — you assume the role of the ruthless spectator, evaluating and measuring each ‘imperfection.’ You no longer view your body as simply your body; it is a machine, a medium and a commodity.
Your fears, doubts, hungers and pains are concealed behind the wings of the theatre’s stage. There, on that sacred sprung floor, you must demonstrate the real art you have practiced your whole life — making everything look easy, effortless, graceful, comfortable.
Under the blistering spotlight, your pain is turned into another's pleasure. Your leg floats upward for an eternity, you catapult yourself into the air and land without a sound and you complete a triple pirouette perfectly — all while lifting your chin and projecting a grin to the eager audience.
And when you do achieve perfection, the crowd’s explosion of ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s make every second of struggle worth it. That invigorating power can make you forget about the shin splints, bunions, headaches and sprains.
In that moment, you are nothing but beautiful.
Esteemed competitions have now been replaced with daily performances. I chassé through the city with an upright posture accredited to years of ballet class. I walk with grace, taste and lingering knee pain. I mask my dissatisfactions with a smile, as I’ve been conditioned to perpetually please. An invisible audience looms over me with their piercing gaze, perceiving my every move and carefully calculating my worth.
The challenge now is to navigate my own path, without clinging to the title of a ‘dancer.’ Who am I without the headline that I once understood as the pillar of my identity? I have grown out of my shoes, my tights, that phase of my life.
But the remnants of my old self are still alive inside of me — in my competitive nature, my fear of criticism, my shoulders. In my warped perception of self that has become intertwined with the pursuit of excellence and in the invisible audience that sits at the back of my brain. In my perfectly slicked ballet bun.
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