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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
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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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The greatest thing a teach can shout at you in class after, “Good” “Great” or “Yes”

is, “Better”
Yesterday I was smacked in the face with my fears
Thankfully, I didn’t break down and freak out. Instead, my teacher helped me see what I was doing wrong and what to do to fix it to do the steps correctly. That’s what scared me. Correctly felt like a pending rolled ankle. 
But it will only be that if I get scared. If I go for the step confidently, then I’ll hit it. 
(I’ve also realized that my arches such in these shoes. No matter how hard I pointe in them, it doesn’t look like it. So. Gotta work on that. Anyway)
We were working on various things across the floor, which I was super grateful for. This is where I know I need work and to build up my confidence for it. Part of the combination was to do a pique passe preparation, then to do a chasse to prepare for a pirouette from 4th.
Yes, I thought, This is exactly what I need! 
And what did I do first time around?
sucked it up. 
I undershot and ended up just on demi. I couldn’t get all the way on to full releve. UGH.
So we did the left, lalala, whatever. I found myself flubbing up the combinations more than usual. This is probably due to my brain being fuzzy and my heart overwhelmed. Which I try to leave at home, but sometimes I can’t ignore it enough.
We got to do the combination again. 
This time, I got the pirouette in. It was spotty, but I managed.
That’s when Ms. Munro yelled out, “Better, Emilee!” in her adorable British accent.
Better.
I’m getting better.
And I know how to work on my feet and what to do. And I know what to work on and what to push towards.
And sometimes my feet look ugly in my shoes, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s the shoes, my lack of arch, or my still-trying-to-build confidence that will fix it.
So. there’s that.
I started class thinking, “why do I even try” and was able to leave feeling “this is why.”
Here ya go. I don’t post these often, because I pretend that I actually look like a ballerina and tend to prefer the allusion. But whatever. This is who I am and here it is.

Blisters popped, and I didn’t even notice! This is a big deal for me! Go me! 
hah
And, another one, where my friend caught it as I was starting to fall out of it.
But, eh, whatevs.
I couldn’t do that two months ago.
Yay wonder shoes!
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