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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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Another injury

That’s right, another injury.
Apparently during the holiday showcase, I stepped funny (I’m assuming do to the blisters) and sprained my foot.
I didn’t see a doctor about it until this past Monday, hoping it would just pass and be fine.
I talked to a doctor at my parents church who said it seemed I shifted a bone out of place.
Yeah, imagine me, in the back row of church, in a dress, with her pulling on my foot to make sure it was back in place.
So I settled on that for a while, druggin’ up on ibuprofen to keep the swelling down.
Two weeks later and it was still hurting, so I decided to see if I needed xrays to make sure nothing more was wrong with it.
Nope. Just a freakin’ grade 2-grade 3 foot sprain. Have to take it easy for a few more weeks.
So, no pointe.
Hopefully just two more weeks. The doctor said to wait until it feels better (which it is already improving) and warned to not start back too soon or I could risk permanent damage.
Quite the chatty fellow. He proceeded to tell me–through laughter–how silly it is to not wait out an injury, because it would just cause  more time I’d have to be away later and possibly end my career.
He also made an interesting comment on how it doesn’t matter if you’re a beginner, in high school, experienced, professional–whatever. The risk is still the same all throughout.
“One you start football, no matter the level, you’re a football player. Once you start ballet, no matter if you’re just doing it recreationally or not, you’re a ballerina.”

I’m a ballerina.
I’m a ballerina.

This struck me.
I guess I always hesitated to label myself as such, seeing that I’ve only just completed my second year of (real) ballet and have so much in front of me to go. Maybe it’s because when you’re my age and say you’re a ballerina, people expect you to be hard core or–at least–tiny. But I still have much to learn and so much to improve on. I’m barely on pointe and even when I am, it seems a struggle to get to do anything without someone having to sit out.
I really don’t want to lose any of the muscle I’ve built up.
I want to be able to improve on it and work hard.
But for now, I have to wait.

No matter, I’ll do what I can do.
I’ll work on flexibility and abs. That doesn’t require my foot.
And what do you know,

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, at 25 years old, I have finally reached a goal of being able to do a split.
I went down into the right side split and was able to lift my hands and stay there. Almost have it on my left side, too, and center is getting better and better.
It was just a surprising little reminder that progress is happening.

Defeat is only defeat when you give up on trying.

I refuse to be defeated.

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