I saw it everywhere.

In the way my letters flew across the page, print flowing in a sweet cursive waltz… in the calluses temporarily decorating my arched feet, - novelties, I called them…. in the rigid posture I would find myself holding at Starbucks (belly in, back straight.. don’t get that latte you always order); ballet whirled through my blood.

I dreamt of it every night, woke up the following morning with the belief it was still in me, laced up my red pointe shoes and chassé-ed into my cotton leotard, my skin-tone tights smooth against shaven legs.

It was only until I walked out the door that I remembered it was a Saturday…or a Sunday…or 3:00pm and not actually morning at all…or, hey, how’s about your career’s over for a cheeky good mornin’?

They said it was natural; it was normal; it was expected.

That’s what they said, anyways.

But… me? I didn’t believe a damn thing that came from their mouths’ neutral tones, their trying-oh-so-desperately-not to-show-sympathy-but-who-could-withstand-it faces.

Maybe they couldn’t see it, I would try to reason. Maybe it wasn’t clear enough; maybe they just didn’t understand. I mean, who could blame them, right? How could anyone be expected to understand the situation if even I can’t?

I was never normal, though. No matter what they said, I know that normal could never define me as a person or even justify my actions or thoughts. It just wasn’t me.

Normal. God, what even is normal? I’ll tell you who came up with normal.

Normal people, that’s who- you know, people who sit at cubicles all day long staring at their computer screen for a solid four hours every day, pretending to look busy and only getting a good fifteen minutes of work done.

No, my future won’t-well, wasn’t planned to- end up that way. Who knows, though? Maybe it will. I mean, hell, I never figured I’d be a ballerina (for however long that lasted, anyways).

“Strap on those tap shoes and give it a go!” my father would cajole as I laced on my ballet shoes; at the time, I didn’t have pointe shoes. Really, though, I’m surprised my parents even bought me plain ol’ shoes in the first place; I wasn’t even enrolled in any studio; I just liked to slip and slide across the house.

“It’s lace, dad. And they’re ballet shoes,” I would stick my head up proudly and roll my eyes in superiority. I smiled then. I couldn’t help it.

He always said stupid stuff like that to try and get a rise out of me. It never worked, but it’s not like I ever told him that. He wasn’t the sort of person to have many friends; he devoted himself to his work and his family, and, to be honest, I felt sorry for the old guy.

I was like him in a lot of ways, you know, and secretly, though I loved him, I wished that I would never end up at a job like his. There was only career I had in mind, and that wasn’t even one that I could still have at his age. Either way, he always believed in me. He helped me believe in myself, actually.

I once thought that was all you needed- the passion, the fervor, the zeal to do it, to reach those goals, and, for a good while, I lived with that same attitude.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying it didn’t help. In fact, it’s probably the reason, the one thing that truly molded me into becoming such a determined person. But that’s not the only thing you need to be a dancer. There’re other things, too, of course, that aren’t necessarily decided by you, but that decide your fate. You need skills (obviously), coordination, rhythm, connections, pointe shoes ($70 worth of replacement shoes every 3 months adds up after a while), and the knowledge that you will get injured.

I’m not being negative. Really. It’s definitive.

Whether it’s a tragic one that ruins your entire career (hello there!) or a twisted ankle that promises your understudy the role for the night, it gets pretty scary.

Not only must you simply be aware of this, though; you must accept it, too. Sounds easy, right? But take me into consideration for a second. I never figured I’d become paralyzed from the waist down and be confined to a wheelchair (permanently…temporarily…who knows at this point?)

Getting injured, that’s not the scary part.

No, the scary part is never knowing if you’ll ever dance again, never knowing if you can manage to propel your legs across the floor in a slight jog, nonetheless in an effortless spin. It’s this fear, this fear of the unknown, of the uncontrollable.

Just last Sunday, I had stepped up to the role of Juliet in the Academy’s Sydney tour. Oh, was I excited.

I could literally see the anticipated nerves sweep to my feet as I waited side-stage in a shake-it-off jog. Abigail had unfortunately, yet fortunate at the time for me, twisted her foot, and could not go on. And trust me, when a dancer says they can’t go on, you better rush them to the nearest hospital.

It’s funny, though, huh?

She twisted her ankle and had to wait a week to start dancing again- such a tragedy! No sarcasm intended; my heart truly went out to her- but now I’m in a wheelchair.

Like I said before, I’m not usually one to give up. It’s just not in my nature. And, to be completely honest, no matter how much my inner self-conscious screams that I could have avoided that miniscule falter, that tiny, miscalculated step, it wasn’t up to me anymore to decide my fate. I always know what to do; I’ve always had a plan for my life.

Ballet- why did I choose ballet? Perhaps I was content, thrilled by the constant fear of the unknown. Why, then, am I not content with my life now? I mean, I’m practically free-falling into this huge pit of I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-to-expect-of-my-life-anymore.
I had fought before, with this inner self, I mean. With my inner resolve. I had tried (unsuccessfully, of course) to convince myself that I was in charge of my situation. I can take control! I would remind myself victoriously, but that my hands were just shy of grappling the reins.

I could; I would take control of this. I would lace up my red pointe shoes one day and catch my heart soaring, twirling in the empty sky above.

But for now? Well, they’re hidden deep in my closet drawer somewhere. I’m in reach of them, but I can’t stand the sight of them. Is this comforting still?

I fall asleep and dream of ballet.

It starts again.