As a child, ballet was not just an extracurricular activity, it was my identity. I started homeschooling after the fourth grade to devote my young life to this passion, trading a traditional grade-school education for a daily schedule replete with private lessons, technique classes, and extended rehearsals. My days started early and ended late but I adored every moment. As I progressed in the discipline, I would move around the country—from Aspen to Boston to D.C.—enrolling in prestigious full-time academies to train with world-renowned masters of the art. From age six to sixteen, ballet was all I wanted, it was all I knew.
To this day, I can still hear the rhythmic beat of my first instructor’s accent as he dictated commands of intricate
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After missing five years of formal education, I enrolled back in school for my junior year and knew almost instantly that I had made the right decision. I surprised myself by excelling in areas of study I never thought I would again have time to entertain. I saw my potential as limitless, with a whole world of possibilities opening back up to me. Even though it often felt like a vital part of my identity was gone, my thirst for knowledge in my new life had grown in its place. I tried desperately not to look at leaving ballet as a failure, but it wasn’t until recently when I returned to a ballet class after twelve years that I finally understood the gift it had granted me.
Back in the studio again, it was the familiar bell-like tones of piano keys that brought all the memories recorded into my body flooding back and I felt this extraordinary sense of coming home. I realized ballet taught me to love the practice, the quiet moments alone in the studio, hearing only my breath and the gentle sound of my shoes on the floor. That dedication was the daily battle of facing the mirror, my harshest critic, and repeating simple movements again and again so my body memorized perfection. It was no longer about praise or accolades, but the hard work that was dependent solely on