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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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Retrospect

Yesterday, a friend I’ve known since Instep made a comment.
She said she was talking to a girl who was part of her dance group at the local university (I took pictures of them back when they were still in school) around Nutcracker and how impressed she was when she told her I was the Rat Queen.
You see, these girls knew me when I was first starting out.
They were in those classes where everything was hard and I was struggling.
To hear that she saw the improvement and was impressed, and even proud, made me feel so good.

I was looking at my blog today, and saw how they auto-filter spam comments, so decided to look through and see if anything exciting showed up.
Turns out I had a new comment from a post in September that I had somehow missed.

And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
I went back to the post and re-read it. Of course, it was the one where I really stopped to remember how far I had come in the last four years. As much as I hate to accept that this is only as far as I am, I can’t let myself believe that this is nothing.
I was really quite terrible in the beginning, but I kept working on it, and never gave up even when I really wanted to. Something in me wouldn’t let me throw in the towel.

And here I am, finding myself in one of those situations again where throwing in the towel seems easier–less embarrassing.

I couldn’t let myself if I tried.

Even with the thought of “I should just quit,” there is a fear in the back of my mind of the day that will inevitably come when I have to hang up my pointe shoes and stop dancing. I don’t want that day to come. I don’t want to just work and go home. I don’t want to ever not have a studio to go to.
I don’t want to stop dancing.

When favor falls on the opposite side of my fence, and when the bar is just a bit too far from my reach, I have to keep myself going. I’m more than a role or a label or a certain level.

I dance for me.

And really, thank you, dear readers, for your comments of encouragement. They do more for me than I could ever express.

Since I couldn’t find the first picture, here’s a side-by-side of my attitude in September 2014 versus July 2015.

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