A shooting star is technically a falling star; my dream of dance and ballet that I have tried relentlessly to pursue I feel falling further away from me and all I can do is watch, wishing on the shooting star to rise again.

A few students yawned and we went exhaustingly over everyones solo (including my understudy part) and I decided I HAVE TO WATCH THE VIDEO OF THE BREADCRUMB VARIATION because I am being left in the dust and would soon be swept away, just like a breadcrumb. I blew my falling down hair out of my face and sighed at my messy bun in the mirror compared to everyone's pristine buns.

I might have been a bit checked out during Nutcracker, however I felt free at the same time. I danced despite what was going on in my life. As heavy as grief is, it is at the sometime freeing to know that you can go through this type of thing that you hear about your entire life (and dread, let’s be honest) and then it happens and you realize that you can get through it. You don’t have to wonder anymore if you can.

First, we discover during rehearsal right before the show they have the wrong track for Snow and the music is four times faster than our performance piece. FOUR TIMES. The look on everyones face when we realize the wrong track is playing is priceless. They make us rehearse with it anyway (the show must ALWAYS go on) and it is like watching a ballet car pile-up on the freeway. Our teachers face from the audience is a face of duress, cringe and her eyes are slightly closed. The dancers are all confused, laughing, almost crying, and panicking. White tutus and sparkles are flying through the air in a ballet blizzard of chaos.

Nutcracker turned out to be a healthy dose of chaos mixed with a whirlwind of emotion, nerves and excitement. The backstage drama alternated from dancers almost fainting, losing their costumes —finding their costumes— worrying about their school bullies showing up to their performance, a few of the main acts crying from being overwhelmed, and all the best drama one could wish to experience backstage at a ballet. Everyone was sweating profusely, taking their shoes on and off from being sore and heaving in and out of breath as they rushed from onstage to offstage to do a quick change and to go back onstage. 

I cannot tell you how many countless years I have spent ruminating if I was thin enough or if I had “x”, x being whatever the current trend is. Right now, a huge-fake butt has obsessively taken over most of my thoughts for the past few years. And I live in a city where people are shelling out the cash for these trends. The BBL or injections. Constant squats-only at the gym. Using filters on social media to distort the truth. All of these ridiculous obsessions leave everyone wondering if how they look is okay…

My legs were absolutely shot from the first week back to classes, my calves trembled at the sight of a staircase. My entire body shook when I walked due to exhaustion from being on my legs and feet.

My only outlet for fitness was outdoors (and most of us because of Covid) and now we were sitting idly by, watching our computer screens and wearing even more masks, yet again.

I was feeling desperate. I had one ballet class (the only ballet class I knew of in the city) and it was tonight for one hour and I could hardly keep my composure as my toe nail throbbed and waited to fall off. I didn’t care. It would have to take a whole lot more than a broken toenail to keep me from dance class.

The corner store opens at 8:00 and all the alcoholics — that live outside or up the street in strange housing — roll up around that time to get a 40 as they talk on their phone loudly and state that they have their lives together and how they are not going to get locked up again.

…to compensate, I cut the foot out of all of my black tights of the right leg. I was a mess. It seems I needed a break. Nothing seemed right.

I stopped running four times a week. I stopped obsessing about the commute to certain studios, during certain days of the week. I ate in rich amounts and tried whole heartedly to enjoy the holidays, although they seemed lackluster and layered in stress.

I took hot baths with Epsom salt and some with bath bombs…

Different ballet schools are distinctive. I spent my first few years in adult ballet at a school where we were never allowed to talk, chew gum or bring drinks in (including water) and if you were late you were locked out.

Trying to get reacclimatized to living in a large city and hustling for money. It’s quite difficult to “make it” and “make it happen.” Only the hungry survive.

If you want to make it in this city, pick two of these three things to have: money, your sanity, or less stress. It's impossible to have all three, and if you have less than two, you can't make it here.

There is this girl who always puts on lotion and red lipstick during class and drinks coffee out of straws. She also brings muscle milk and leaves it in the middle of the floor while we are doing center work!!! “I know George Balanchine would have a panic attack if we were in his class!” I thought to myself as I stood as far away from her as possible.

My comical and saucy adventures in the land of latin dance…starting with Tango. Which I have to tell you, I have retaken more than once since I wrote this. It is such a mysterious and challenging style of dance!

I sat in my car breathing hard, borderline anxiety attack, thinking about ditching class. I called a bunch of people, knowing no one would answer, because no one would have the answer  I was looking for. “I have to go to class,” I thought shutting my door in slow motion. I walked into class, quiet today, just trying to clear my head. My teacher’s favorite student arrived, smelling of coffee and cigarettes, and my teacher beamed at her, extra wide and her teeth were extra white and gummy.

I slipped behind them in worn out black flats, a messy mane, cedar parfume and a black dress. I entered the orchestra section and slid into the Kaufman scarlet seat, nervously fanning through the program. I tried to pretend I was one of them. I snuck a handful of almonds out of my backpack, I know NOT classy but I was starving and running late, in my defense. I held my breath. The curtains drew upwards and my heart leaped inside of me.

If I were to be even more technical, I began dance as a child. We would drive 45 minutes each way, to go to the only class available in the closest town. I loved tap and gymnastics and despised ballet. My teacher adored me, but her daughter was absolutely dreadful…