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Emilee

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My front facing camera broke on my phone, making my already limited picture taking even MORE limited. Have a throw back from last spring. I have a blog post in the works. Life has been kinda nutty, my laptop *also* bit the dirt, and things have been kind of overwhelming. Y’all are always on my mind, though! You’ll be hearing from me soon. 💕
Classes yesterday brought to you in part by @leakycon (I don’t usually dress up for costume week, but i do try and incorporate Harry Potter to some degree 🤷🏼‍♀️)
New blog post, link in bio!
My friend Bailey and her company @companythreesixty made this and I have no more words to add. It’s perfect. #Repost @catchingbreaths with @get_repost ・・・ Why didn’t I report? I didn’t report because I thought that if I’m in a relationship with someone, it meant it was equally my fault. I thought the years of unhealthy feelings towards myself which ensued, were still invalid since it could have been worse. I thought I shouldn’t tell my Momma until a couple of years later on a beautiful mountain walk together, and even then, I softened the story from shame for how I’d appear to the person I love the most. I didn’t report because we live in a world where men use sentences like “it can always be worse” as psychological shrapnel. A world that tells us we should have done more to stop it. A world that, even when I remember the attempts to push away as clearly as consciousness cinema, I was scared to push too hard because I didn’t want to make someone mad. A world that makes me worry at sharing, because I have young students and ‘should be a role-model’: with a role model being pure, respectable, elite, undamaged. Now, a mother, wife, champion, boss... I still worry to report as innocuously as through a #WhyIDidntReport hashtag, lest I somehow appear less for having shared. But as someone who’s survived a darkness far worse than that described, and Shawshanked her way to a life of light- save for second glances over shoulders- I can say that the hardest person to report to is actually... yourself. It’s the you that you had once hoped to be. The you that you’ll never be again. The you that you wish you could go back and protect. The you you wish you had been (louder, less in shock, less weak). The you that once was but was taken. To all the Yous you once were reading this (and the You in me who still feels cemented by shame)... this should never have happened. It doesn’t matter how loud, quiet, forceful... how well you knew them.... You didn’t deserve to lose You because your body wasn’t left as yours. None of us do. None of us ever will. There is no good way to end this bit of writing, because the truth is: it hasn’t ended. A perfect sentence will not wrap this up. Y
Old picture, new post Link in bio
Teaching on my birthday is my favorite thing. Hi, I’m 30, and I gave full sized cupcakes to three year olds and I’m sure their parents hate me

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Dance first, think later.

I’ve been having hard time in my life lately.
Things I thought I had learned long ago seem to haunt me.
Too many days I’ve found myself with my head in my hands
Cheeks black with tears.
If I let myself think, even (especially) about those I love, the pain is too much to handle.
Sometimes I feel as if I can’t breathe.

When everything seems hopeless, I have one ray of light.
Dance.
And it may sound childish, or cheesy, or whatever, but it’s true.
When I dance, nothing matters. My brain shuts down.
There’s no room for thinking, all your energy is channeled into focusing.
The people in my class make me feel like I matter.

I may not be the greatest dancer, even for how long I’ve been in class.
But that doesn’t matter to me anymore.
I don’t dance to be good. I want to improve, yes, but what matters most is what dance does for me.
It’s my chance to be selfish.
To take my hour and a half that I’m there and shut out the world.
Nothing matters.
It’ll be waiting for me when I get back.

And it is.
Whatever.
I can’t make it go away.
But the two+ hours a week that I can avoid it, pure bliss.

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