search instagram arrow-down
Emilee

Instagram

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

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

vtgem24 on Oh, hi.
anothernightatthebar… on It comes and goes in wave…
vtgem24 on It comes and goes in wave…
anothernightatthebar… on Kansas City Meet-Up
vtgem24 on Kansas City Meet-Up

Archives

Categories

Meta

Categories

Meta

This.

There are some days that are simple and light and could be described as “pleasant.”

And then there are days that are complicated and dark and can be described using expletives that make your mom angry to hear them, causing you even more frustration.

(No? Just me? Okay.)

Sometimes those days turn in to weeks, or longer, and it can wear pretty rough on your soul.

Sometimes it piles on top of everything else you already deal with every day, making it feel hard to breathe.

So you debate even going to ballet, although it’s been a while and having days where you actually don’t feel exhausted are way fewer and farther between than they used to be and in spite of everything you’re still semi-alive enough to go.

You get in your car, get caught in traffic, cut off more times to count.

You finally get there right when your favorite song comes on the radio, so you wait it out before going inside.

The familiarity of the place begins to seep into your pores, saturating your skin, making it’s way deeper until it hits your blood stream.

You change into your ballet clothes, realizing your tights are still in your car. You get said tights, then finish actually getting dressed. Then realize your shoes are in your car, too, so you go back out and get your shoes, thankful that you haven’t cleaned out your car yet and that you check these things before class, and also that you get here early enough to take all these things into account.

You find the studio full, half with new faces. It’s a bit intimidating, until class begins, and one of your favorite teachers leads you through combinations that challenge your brain and body and you help the new girl next to you know which direction to turn in a soutenu.

And for that glorious hour, all your mind can allow to take in is ballet; the steps, the execution, the timing, the corrections. There’s no room for the stress you walked in with, the pending whatevers that leave you anxious or the fear of the unknown.

For the first time in what seems like forever, you’re finally in a place that’s familiar, a place that feels like home.

All those fears and anxieties and stresses will be there when you leave, but you leave a little lighter, knowing that you had an entire hour where you could leave it and just breathe.

This is why you dance.

This is why you fight.

This is why you refuse to give up.

 

Never quit fighting.

This entry was posted in dance.
Leave a Reply
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: