When I was no more than four-years-old, my mom put me in dance classes.

I don’t really remember the early years of dance (naturally, I was three.) I know I was put in some ballet and jazz classes, parading around in black and pink outfits. There is a picture somewhere in my parent’s house of me and my first ballet teacher, holding a stuffed rabbit the size of my torso, because it was “bring a stuffed animal to class” day or something of that sort. I remember bringing in this stuffed bunny because it had the same name as my dance teacher, and I was really excited to show her.

When I was in elementary school, a new studio opened up in my hometown. One of my best friends went there in its opening year. And as suburban moms do, they chat, they gossip, and foster community. What better way for our daughters to spend more time together than in dance class? What better way for us to build a carpool schedule, talk about our social lives outside of the kids, and escape the house? In its second year, myself and some of our other best friends enrolled in classes as well.

We did jazz, ballet, and hip hop. Three times a week we found ourselves frolicking in an all-white studio, warming up with stretches and closing out with a full-out routine. We all grew together to be a small little family, getting kosher hot dogs in between classes or doing homework before sweating for an hour straight. I definitely enjoyed it. It never felt like a hobby, it was just a part of my life.

When we were in middle school, my dance teacher sat us down and talked with us. If I remember correctly, it took the entire 45 minutes of class. She recognized the oldest kids were getting older; we were all going through puberty, high school was around the corner, all of the hormones were about to be out and about. Like extensions of ourselves, she tried to push us right back in. It echoes in my head to this day. 

“Don’t become teenagers.”

What was meant by that? I was sitting there, just a bit happy that we were spending our dance class talking instead of doing stretches and being told I am not where I should be. The  conversation didn’t make sense to me at the time. But it was brought into clarity as we did, in fact, become teenagers.

Growing up, my parents would describe me in a multitude of ways. I remember digging through our coat closet trying to find magic markers (because we kept them there for some reason?) and instead found some old letters my mom wrote to herself and the family. She used to call me her “little dictator” because I was very demanding on how things were done. As I peruse Twitter, I don’t seem to be unique to this situation, but it was amusing to read how I needed things to be done in a certain way, in a certain order, all of the time.

My mom looks back and tells me how everyone wanted to be my friend. I was confident and courageous and wildly independent. I befriended individuals with ease. When I wanted ice cream sandwiches from the freezer but my mom was too busy to get them immediately, I got a stool and got them myself. My mom had me audition for commercials because she saw a fire in my belly.

Middle school did what middle school does. That fire in my belly had buckets of water thrown on it. The simmer of my confidence hissed in my core. I had a falling out with one of my elementary school best friends, my interests and passions were questioned. Eventually, I was pushed to the back in dance class and not even acknowledged by my peers or teacher. 

So what did my teacher mean when she did not want us to become teenagers? To put it in short, she did not want us to compare each other. It sounds generous, until we realized that was the surface level definition she was trying to allude to. Realistically, she did not want us to question her decisions.

We were expected to do as we were told and not question anything – like robots. The irony in expecting a group of dancers to behave like robots is profound (unless, of course, you were performing the robot, which…we were not.)

The ending was a bit brutal, even though I was shielded by my superhero mother from most of it. At this time, I was a sophomore in high school and had already started cheerleading, something that I really enjoyed doing. Once that final year of dance concluded, performing all of my routines (on the back of the stage, respectfully) I took my end-of-year goodie bag and never looked back.

However, the effects of it did not fade. I received the superlative “the mute” from my cheerleading team because I never spoke up outside of our chants. My senior year, a captain was never named because it was clear to my coaches I was not fit to lead a team. While I had the courage to stand up for myself and exit an environment that did not suit me (despite dance truly being a deep love of mine), it took years later to rebuild the confidence to become myself once again. To rekindle the fire in my belly.

Sometimes I like to think it took work, but it truly just took time. It took time away, it took time surrounding myself with different people, and eventually (and purposefully) placing myself in a new environment. 

There will be moments, and people, who will do their best to dull your light and put out that fire. I know these expressions are cliche, but they ring true for good reason; we are all built with passion, born with unbridled confidence, that the world around us tries to narrow it in to control. I learned that it happens to all of us, but what mattered is how I steered myself through the darkness. I don’t consider myself brave, and yet I knew the only way to protect myself, to preserve myself, was by walking away. Once I reignited the fire within, I felt the warmth again. I felt a part of me that was lost in my wake come to shore. Life has a way of ebbing and flowing, and moments of people or situations trying to throw that metaphorical bucket of water on you. But the fire within me was stronger, because this time I built it myself. And I knew how to keep it alive.

♥.