The Essence of Ballet | A Journey of Rediscovery

When I graduated from high school in 2000, I left the confines of the dance studio to go out and explore the world. Twenty-five years later, I’ve rediscovered the joy of ballet through my students and reinvented myself as a lifelong dancer.

From about age 4 to age 18, I had one primary goal: to become a professional ballet dancer. Ballet was not something that any of my close friends did. It was not my parents’ idea. But from the moment I discovered it, I wanted more.

As a child, my mom took me to see the Cuyahoga Valley Youth Ballet. I told her I wanted to dance with them. At age 8, I started studying at their pre-professional school. At age 9, I auditioned for the company and was rejected. At age 10, I auditioned again. At age 11, I finally got in.

I did not have natural talent. But I had drive. The joy I felt when I danced ballet was unlike anything I felt in any other space. I lived for it. I couldn’t imagine living without it. In my understanding of the world, the only way to keep ballet in my life after high school was to dance professionally. And so I worked hard.

By age 18, I was dancing lead roles with the Cuyahoga Valley Youth Ballet. I was preparing to audition for professional companies, or to continue my training at professional schools if I wasn’t yet good enough to be hired. At 5’ 1”, good enough to be hired meant good enough to be a soloist. No one would hire a dancer my height for the corps.

I auditioned for American Ballet Theatre’s Studio Company, and was not surprised when I didn’t make it. I made the second cut at Julliard, but didn’t get in. I finished high school prepared to enter Butler University’s ballet program on a merit scholarship. There I would stay, I thought, perfecting my skills until I could finally get paid to do what I loved.

But during that summer between high school and college, I discovered that I no longer loved it enough to give up everything else. I wanted to reach beyond the walls of the dance studios and theatres, to do all those things I had always had to say no to. I wanted to study philosophy and travel the world.

It would be another ten years before I could enjoy a ballet class again. I was afraid to set foot in a studio and see how terrible my dancing had surely become. I was embarrassed to be seen at less than my prime. I feared that a ballet class would only bring frustration over what I could no longer do.

In the years after I stopped performing, I was occasionally asked to teach ballet—first to young gymnasts in Indiana, and later to professional flamenco dancers and amateur folk dancers in Chile. Eventually, I began seeking out opportunities to work with students who didn’t see ballet as a serious career option, but enjoyed and appreciated it alongside their main interests and pursuits.

I taught middle and high school students who cared more about orchestra, drama, academics, and athletics than ballet. I taught children who were enjoying their childhoods. I taught adults who were finishing their PhDs, building their careers, and raising their children. Through these students, I rediscovered my own love for ballet and discovered that it could be part of my life—and so many other people’s lives—without giving up everything else.

Over the past couple of decades, I’ve found myself reinventing ballet as a lifelong practice. I’ve discovered that as a dancer, I still have a spark, a grace, an intuition that grows stronger with age. My hips and shoulders creak. My back and ankles inform me immediately when I do too much too soon. And I listen. I center myself, find my breath, find that essence of ballet that has always felt like home to me. 

I let go of the athletic feats that professional performers and pre-professional students must achieve. If I can do fouetté turns or grand jetés today, great. Let it be fun, thrilling, exhilarating. Let it strengthen my heart and lungs. But when my ankles, my thighs, my sense of balance tell me, “Not today”--and even the day when they tell me, “Not ever again”--I will still dance.

In a grainy video, I watch myself with a long white tutu dancing Balanchine’s Chopiniana. It was my last year in high school, and I didn’t know at the time that it would be my last classical ballet performance. I’ve never liked tutus. They’ve always felt too frilly for my taste. I’ve always preferred stories where the princess sheds her dresses in favor of more appropriate attire for wilderness survival. This was a student performance, and we usually wore leotards and skirts. But I remember someone suggesting that my princess costume from the company production of Fly Away Flock would be perfect for this piece. I remember reluctantly agreeing to wear it.

I’m proud of how I danced in that video. When I watch it, I see a dancer light on her feet, at one with the music, precise with the shape of each movement. She looks calm, collected, confident. Never mind that my feet in pointe shoes never formed stunning arches, and I wobbled a bit on my relevés. It is the calm, collected confidence, and the careful attention to Chopin’s masterful music and Balanchine’s masterful choreography that make it breathtakingly beautiful. 

It is this essence of ballet, this feeling one with the music and one with my body and mind, that compel me to keep dancing as I move into my 40s, my 50s, and beyond.

I did another performance two years later, of which I am equally proud. I had retired from performing ballet, but was persuaded by dance professors at Bard College to choreograph and perform a contemporary piece for myself. I thought of it as my final goodbye to the stage, and I called it “Letting Go.”

As I watch this piece (equally grainy and dark, but with a costume more to my liking), I’m amazed at how well I was already adapting my artistry to my changing body. I hadn’t worn pointe shoes or trained intensively in years, and yet I was able to create and perform a stunning piece. I didn’t think I would ever be able to do it again. Now, I’m not so sure. I still have a few decades to go.