I’ve broken up with dance two times in my life. The first was to pursue gymnastics, but I quickly returned after learning about gravity. Dance, then, had given in to my apologies and taken me back easily. The second time was significantly more impactful and a much longer separation. I was just 11, a year shy of getting those coveted pointe shoes. I had been forced by my parents to leave my small studio and the 10-hour dance week that came with it. So I stopped dancing, stopped missing piano lessons for competitions, and stopped arriving late to math class.
The first stage after a breakup is denial. I was in utter disbelief that I wouldn’t be dancing anymore. I didn’t think it would matter. Not only was I in denial about it being over, telling my friends that I was just taking a short break, but I was in denial about the importance it carried in my life. Now I’ll be able to go to birthday parties and go to the movies, I told myself.
Bargaining shortly followed. I filled my time with other activities. I was student council president, I added more skating hours and started pre-juvenile, I went to the movies for the first time in my life. I desperately wanted to be okay – but I wasn’t.
The next stage is depression. I missed my friends, I missed the crazy stage makeup and inappropriate costumes, I even missed that hellish conditioning that had kept me in shape. But most importantly, I missed the feeling of being free, of flying, and of being absolutely lost but completely aware at the same time. I missed dancing.
Anger came in bursts between the other stages. I was upset with my parents for forcing me to quit, I was upset at the world for letting it happen, and I was upset that I couldn’t get over it. I threw tantrums over small things and was constantly moody. What had freed my emotions was now gone, and yelling was my only other release.
I’m supposed to tell you now that the last stage is acceptance. You’re expecting a story on how I got over it and found a new passion. But that’s only half true. I did discover other passions and I “survived” my separation. Although I survived, I didn’t really live. I wanted – I needed – to dance again.
And so I did. Dance was less accepting, less willing to take me back the second time. My mother disapproved of me running back to my old love. But that’s the thing about this kind of love, this kind of relationship. Even if we spend less time together now, even if we still have kinks to work out, even if I need to work twice as hard to get back to where I was in dance – dancing is worth it.
Maybe dance is my poison; it’s time consuming, hard, and “academically useless.” But dance is also my passion; it gives me hope and freedom in situations where it cannot be otherwise obtained. Dance makes me ridiculously happy. There is nothing that can beat the satisfaction of landing a triple or pulling a straight needle. I’m weightless and completely free during jetés.
When I’m dancing, I’m flying.