As a professional, I didn't understand other dancers who wanted dance to be fun.
Dance was painful and stressful. I loved dance more than anything but it wasn't fun.
What is the cost of reaching for perfection when you'll never achieve it? What happens when you compare yourself to others? Even at the time when I started my dance training I felt I wasn’t good enough. I was dumbstruck when someone could turn more and lift their leg higher than me. I was embarrassed when dancers jumps soared high above mine. There was always someone with a body more suitable for dance and inevitably someone more attractive. I knew dancers who had an uncanny false sense of self, but for reasons either good or bad, I was painfully aware of reality. I could see what I looked like and I realized ballet promoted aesthetically pleasing forms; perfect bodies moving perfectly in perfect unison. I knew I was far from perfect: long torso, short legs, bowlegs, the dreaded “bad feet”, not much rotation and mediocre flexibility. Being denied even one physically redeeming quality, my body seemed to me a beastly shell that trapped the beautiful soul of a dancer. I knew I wasn’t good enough. Doubt and self hatred had always been part of my life, but it intensified with dance.
After quitting Neubert Ballet Company in 1988, it took 6 years for me to find another professional dance job. Again, I was competing against an onslaught of exquisite shells and was continually brushed aside or overlooked. It would have been easy to quit, but I kept taking in the rejection and used it as ammunition to work harder. I worked on my rotation and it improved. I worked on my feet and they eventually looked better, not impressive, but acceptable. Chipping away at the old me to build a better version was a slow process. No matter how much I improved, it was never enough, because there was always someone better.
When I joined the Trocks, I was assigned spots in the corps de ballet at first, but due to my hard work and determination (and my extraordinary ability to remember choreography and details), I was rewarded with a featured role. Proving I was consistent on stage and receiving positive acknowledgements from the audiences, I was presented with more opportunities.The following year when more dancers were hired, many of my soloist and principal roles were either taken away, or I was forced to share. If I wasn’t competing with other dancers I was competing against myself. The offender that caused most of my anguish was the mirror. Every studio had one and it reflected my less than ideal image back at me every day. I glared at my reflection and cursed my flaws. Once my roles where distributed to others I began resenting myself.
The self doubt and negativity continued until the year I decided to retire. Once I realized I had one year of dancing left, I let go. I told myself I was going to enjoy myself and have fun, and I did. I took every class like it was my last, I relished in the movement, I opened up my heart and let those early years of childish joy dancing around the house come back into my life. I beamed with excitement going across the floor and my friends made fun of me, but didn’t care because I finally remembered why I danced - because I WAS dance. It was the reason I was alive. It was the best time I experienced dancing and I couldn’t believe it took 26 years to happen.
Now when I teach I try to pass on what I learned to my students. I give them positive reinforcement, make them aware of how lucky they are to dance, advise them not to be so hard on themselves, let them know it’s okay to make mistakes, encourage them to relish the good times and bad, and most importantly I take great efforts to make them laugh. I try to convince them that they are okay the way they are and although they may not be perfect, nothing is, nothing in ballet and nothing in life. Hopefully by living through my painful past, I can prevent someone else from experiencing that pain, and inspire them to love dance, love life and love themselves.
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