Former Dancer
I was 3 when my mom put me in dance class.
A time when twirling around with my own reflection in the mirror held my interest more than listening to my dance teacher.
Memorizing choreography was hard, but I got better.
And as the years passed, it became something I was really proud of.
I was in 3 classes a week.
Then 7 classes a week.
And then 12.
When I was tiny my mom would rush backstage between each dance for a quick change.
A race of getting a sweaty kid out of one complicated costume and into another in less than 2 minutes.
"Don't forget the hairpiece!"
I don't really remember having stage fright.
But the anticipation right before going on stage was absolutely terrifying.
After a long dance week, I felt so accomplished.
My muscles were sore and my knees were bruised, but I was making art.
With my body.
I danced throughout college on the university's dance team and dance company.
Then earned my minor in dance kinesiology.
Soon I was teaching art classes by day and dance classes at night.
A rigorous schedule that was bound to knock me out.
And irritate a brewing set of unexplained autoimmune symptoms I had been too busy to properly acknowledge.
I eventually had to pause my dance life.
My body needed a break but the thought of not dancing depressed me.
It was a part of my identity I was afraid to lose.
So these days I get excited when someone asks me if I'm a dancer.
Just based on how I walk or stand or stretch or point my big toe.
I beam with pride and confirm their suspicion: former dancer.
I guess it's no wonder I paint hands now.
What I learned on stage lives on paper.
Hands often tell the story before the rest of the body catches up.
