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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
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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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Take a step back.

My shoes are still giving me a bit of trouble, but I kept them on the whole class since I can do more on those than the others that kill my toes.
(I mean, I know pointe is supposed to hurt, but those are ridiculous…)
The box and my toes were fine, just the normal amount of discomfort that comes with it, but they were so baggy that it made me nervous. I had to hold back a little so I wouldn’t hurt my ankle since my shoe seemed to be twisting on itself as I pointed. I tried not to let myself get frustrated and just give up, but to find the balance in what I can do and to hold back a little when it was too much.
She had us do a bunch of scoops, which made me nervous since my shoe was so loose. I wanted to try, but I didn’t want to break my ankle or something.
At one point, we were at the barre just doing jete releve’s, and my ankle wiggled around so much that it hurt like I twisted it mildly afterwards.
I looked at my friend Liz after the combination, and mouthed that my shoes are too baggy and it hurt my ankle. She mouthed something back, but I couldn’t quite make it out, so I shrugged.
I won’t lie, I felt really defeated.
I held on to the hope of the pointe shoe fitting with Capezio, even though there is the possibility none of their shoes will fit me since my foot is so darn tapered.
My friend Liz gave me some of her extra elastic (since I never get enough, it seems…) and we talked about the class. She told me,
“You nailed those jete releve’s.”
“What? No I didn’t. You didn’t see my ankle nearly rolling?”
“No? It was literally perfect. You looked so light and made it look effortless.”
“Well it definitely wasn’t effortless.”

Then my cranial wheels got to turning.
Isn’t that what it’s about? Making something so pristine and difficult look effortless? Isn’t that what Jilissa always wanted us to do; make it look light? I remember trying not to put too much weight on the barre; that’s a bad habit I need to work towards eliminating. Isn’t this what I encourage myself with when I look at the pros? I look at their feet, I look for the wiggles, I look for the nearly complete but not fully completed third pirouette. I look for these deficiencies and then look at the whole picture and consider the fact that no one notices those little things because they’re too busy taking in all the things that are right with the whole picture. They’re busy registering the fact that what the dancer just did was insanely complicated, especially to make it look so easy, and even if they were to see the little faults, it’s nothing in comparison to everything they just accomplished.
After all, we are human.

Liz’s words were simple, but the depth of their encouragement is one that I don’t have words for.
That someone who was taught incorrectly as a kid, who was told she wasn’t the right size for dance, who was doubted, who was criticized could actually be one who is developing into something of the ballet image. Someone who is doing the technique correctly and in a way that doesn’t make people cringe or feel bad for the “bad dancer on the stage with all the good dancers, she must feel embarrassed.”

Maybe one of these days I won’t have to just rely on passion to make my dancing worth watching. Maybe one day it’ll actually be paired with skill. Maybe one day all this hard work will pay off.
It makes me want to work harder. It makes me want to practice more. It makes me want to try to be better.

Mrs. Munro taught our class, and she also came and corrected my back attitude. I had always wondered if it was right or not, and how to improve it; especially without looking like a dog next to a fire hydrant. And she did, she moved my leg up and told me, “You can get it there” and I did. I held it where she put it, and it’s like all the lights went off in my head and I knew that if I don’t push myself like that, I’ll never get better.

The thing with ballet is that you can never try too hard.
Go hard. Put as much effort as you can. If it’s too much, the teacher will reel you in and shape it into what it needs to be, but you gotta give them something to work with.

(also, she convinced me to try out for Nutcracker. She said she’ll tell me if there’s a place I fit in comfortably, and she’ll tell me if there’s not. That way I’m not, like, awkwardly the 26-year-old with a bunch of 11-year-olds.)

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