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Emilee

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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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Gotta get back to Hogwarts Gotta get back to school Gotta get myself to Hogwarts Where everything is magicooooool
Mischief Managed.

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There will be blood.

Had my first “blood draw” at the new studio.
okay, okay, so there wasn’t really blood…
but there was loss of skin, so that’s something.

Now this is gross and kind of pointless, but it really made me happy.

My feet are starting to look like dancer feet.
They’re forming callouses and rough spots and toe nails are starting to split.
I’m starting to get dancer’s feet.
The normally dreaded thing is more like a right of passage to me,
A red badge of courage, so to speak.
It means I’m getting somewhere, means I’m growing.
That I’m not just getting blisters because I have the wrong shoes, but because I’m working hard and improving.
(okay, so it was because my toepad slipped, which rubbed my foot wrong, but whatever.)

Nutcracker auditions are tomorrow.
I’m excited and hopeful that maybe I’ll be good enough to get a part fitting to my age group.
If not, it’s okay.
I tried and that’s what matters. I can do nothing but improve from here.
(technically, I could stay stagnant, but really. What would be the point?)

Thursday classes leave me feeling invigorated.
Mrs. Munro complimented me, and helped me reach a higher back attitude and arabesque than I thought was possible. She pointed out that the reason I’m not going higher–because I should be, and I’m able to–is all because I just need to let myself lean forward a little.
Simple.

I’m excited to see where this year takes me.

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