Dear dance,
I really feel its time we break up. Its not you; its me. I've been hearing "but you love dance!!" from every single person lately. The thing is, I DON'T completely hate you. Despite the bloody toes, messed up ankles, odd attachment to the scent of hairspray, and itchy tutus, I've learned countless life lessons from you and truly did enjoy ballet. Aside from art, you are the first sport/activity that I've partaken in that I actually had a slight passion for. That means you are the only other thing I have loved as much as art. Sports involved too much running. Figure skating was too risky. Gymnastics was too flippy. You were-well, perfect. Although the only passion I had for you was fleeting, you connected me to friends, gave me something to do, and gave me this special high of being onstage I've never felt while participating in anything else. You taught me that nothing will be perfect. Ever. You taught me that perseverance will get me anywhere. You taught me to take the most bitter of criticisms-which has been crucial in art.
I always told myself that I could never bring myself to part with you. That's why I never tried out for pom, quit piano lessons, and didn't ever try any other sport. But recently it's been weighing on me. You are so much. So much money. So much time. So much sparkles. Pointe class was eye-opening. It used to be my most absolute favourite class in the entire world. I never wanted to take my pointe shoes off. But when I joined the ridiculously difficult advanced class, it weighed on me more than any class at school ever had. I couldn't grasp the routine. I was having a hard time retaining any movements I practiced. I dreaded going to class. That's when I knew.
After parting with jazz and tap last year, I knew the feeling. The dreading. The hatred. The "mom-please-don't-make-me-go" feeling. It was similar with jazz last year (although not as arduous); and I knew that feeling that way towards something I loved wasn't right.
So here I am. I give all my apologies to the fourth grader who dreamed of dancing in a professional ballet company, and to the sixth grader who said that she wanted to do nothing more than dance and art, and to the ninth grader who actually believed I could survive four years on pointe shoes. The people are right, I really DID love you, dance. I just can't deal with you any longer. Thank you for showing me the simple joys in life; a new box of pointe shoes, costume day, the god awful smell of hairspray. I know that we'll meet again some day. Maybe on my wedding day, or in an open ballroom, or while taking an Instagram photo in front of the Eiffel Tower. But I think it's best that we stay away from eachother for awhile. I'll never admit it, but I'll miss you.
Love,
Sarah
I really feel its time we break up. Its not you; its me. I've been hearing "but you love dance!!" from every single person lately. The thing is, I DON'T completely hate you. Despite the bloody toes, messed up ankles, odd attachment to the scent of hairspray, and itchy tutus, I've learned countless life lessons from you and truly did enjoy ballet. Aside from art, you are the first sport/activity that I've partaken in that I actually had a slight passion for. That means you are the only other thing I have loved as much as art. Sports involved too much running. Figure skating was too risky. Gymnastics was too flippy. You were-well, perfect. Although the only passion I had for you was fleeting, you connected me to friends, gave me something to do, and gave me this special high of being onstage I've never felt while participating in anything else. You taught me that nothing will be perfect. Ever. You taught me that perseverance will get me anywhere. You taught me to take the most bitter of criticisms-which has been crucial in art.
I always told myself that I could never bring myself to part with you. That's why I never tried out for pom, quit piano lessons, and didn't ever try any other sport. But recently it's been weighing on me. You are so much. So much money. So much time. So much sparkles. Pointe class was eye-opening. It used to be my most absolute favourite class in the entire world. I never wanted to take my pointe shoes off. But when I joined the ridiculously difficult advanced class, it weighed on me more than any class at school ever had. I couldn't grasp the routine. I was having a hard time retaining any movements I practiced. I dreaded going to class. That's when I knew.
After parting with jazz and tap last year, I knew the feeling. The dreading. The hatred. The "mom-please-don't-make-me-go" feeling. It was similar with jazz last year (although not as arduous); and I knew that feeling that way towards something I loved wasn't right.
So here I am. I give all my apologies to the fourth grader who dreamed of dancing in a professional ballet company, and to the sixth grader who said that she wanted to do nothing more than dance and art, and to the ninth grader who actually believed I could survive four years on pointe shoes. The people are right, I really DID love you, dance. I just can't deal with you any longer. Thank you for showing me the simple joys in life; a new box of pointe shoes, costume day, the god awful smell of hairspray. I know that we'll meet again some day. Maybe on my wedding day, or in an open ballroom, or while taking an Instagram photo in front of the Eiffel Tower. But I think it's best that we stay away from eachother for awhile. I'll never admit it, but I'll miss you.
Love,
Sarah