Why I Dance

I grew up in a world of contradictions; the same place that exemplified illusion and fantasy simultaneously revealed the bitter truth of nonexistent perfection.

As a ballerina, and a diligent one at that, I longed to attain those impossible ideals, even while knowing they were fiction. I rehearsed, stretched, and trained every day, consuming any ballet-related media I could get my hands on, convinced the gateway to my success was hidden somewhere within it.

Just as, in every new interaction with a New Yorker, one is asked, “So, what do you do for work?”, it seemed the only question for a ballerina (aside from whether our feet hurt) was, “Why do you dance?”

Why sacrifice everything for a short career with little money and no guarantees?

I wished to respond, “Why breathe?”, but I knew it was a media-trained answer with little meaning, much like the ever-common, “…because dance lets me express myself.” An answer that makes my eyes roll.

I personally rehearsed my own answer in the shower over a hundred times as I staged interviews and podcasts, for my shampoo bottles. Despite my best efforts, however, I often found myself stumbling on words, rambling until I eventually fell upon a similar cliché. My lack of confidence in delivering an answer (if only for myself) filled me with all-consuming dread. And yet, I continued to ask myself the same thing every day, as if checking to see that I was on the right track.

Philosophers refer to life as our greatest teacher, and mine was wholly and entirely ballet. In this bubble, I matured, developed ideas about the world, and managed to discover my artistic voice. It was there that I discovered there was some truth in the answer that once made me recoil, and yet somehow I knew there was more to uncover within the ways I chose to express myself.

I remember going to the San Francisco Ballet with my mother when I was a child. I was already studying ballet with extreme rigor at this point, yet despite being less than ten years old, I knew this would become my profession. The velvet seats nearly swallowed me whole as I sat down, submitting myself to the luxury of the theater.

I adored going to the ballet as an audience member, as it revealed the glamorous side of the world I lived in. But on this particular occasion, as I looked around the golden opera house while my mother settled in beside me, I was shocked by the audience. I realized there wasn’t a single person below the age of sixty-five who wasn’t studying ballet themselves.

This discovery broke my heart. I did not want to dance for the people who attended the ballet as a display of wealth. I wanted to dance for the people who wanted to escape and be inspired by the movement, just as I had been inspired to perform.

As I grew older and my days of training neared their close, I learned about the government systems in Europe that supported the arts through funding for institutions that promoted the work I longed to pursue. I knew then there was nowhere else to be. I shifted my focus, defining my “why” as inspiring young audiences and sharing my love of this ancient art form with audiences today.

As my career continued and the fantasy became reality, however, the possibility of a life beyond the stage began to feel appealing.

I asked myself the haunting question once more: “Why?” This time, I let my lack of an answer guide me into a deeper internal debate.

I had made it on paper, and yet I was not fully satisfied. I had more I wished to say, more I wished to uncover, and I no longer felt the thrill and pitter-patter of my heart as I entered the studio in the morning and laced my pointe shoes.

As I write this today, it has been over a year since I hung up those shoes professionally and stepped away from the only world I ever knew. I feel as though I have transformed into an entirely different version of myself.

When a New Yorker approaches me today, I still stutter as they ask their notorious question, and yet I always find myself explaining my ballet career before describing how I fill my days now.

After leaving Europe and stepping away, the ballet studio continued to call to me like a siren at sea. It took me six months to answer, and I am so grateful that I did.

I spent the majority of my first class post-retirement sniffling back tears at the sweet sound of live music and the coordination in my body that had never left me.

In some ways, despite feeling a little tighter in my hips, I danced better than ever before. While some muscles lost flexibility, other parts of my body began to relax in ways they hadn’t before, allowing for a greater range of movement. I danced bigger, jumped higher, and no longer beat myself up when I couldn’t instantly recall the combinations.

Since this discovery, I have continued to attend ballet class when the siren calls, and with every lesson, I leave feeling a little more like myself.

One day, as I walked home from class, feeling the onset of what would become muscle pain the next morning, I laughed to myself, realizing I had found my “why.”

I dance because it is the most selfish thing I can do. I dance because it makes me feel like the truest, most beautiful version of myself. I do not dance to express myself to others; I dance to remind myself who I am and who I have always been.

I think of those who inspire me. It is not those who try so desperately to teach me what I am missing who make me stop in my tracks, but those who stop in their own tracks to simply exist in pure bliss.

If someone happens to be inspired by the joy I feel in my soul as I perform this ancient art form, then bless us all. In the meantime, I dance for myself. I dance because I love it, and I will continue to dance as long as I am able.