TW: Eating Disorders, Abuse

I was one of countless little girls who were fascinated by baby pink jewelry boxes with itty-bitty ballerinas that gracefully twirled to angelic music each time the box was opened. I am also sure I am not the only girl whose mother put her into baby dance classes before she was old enough to go to school. However, many four-year-old “prima ballerinas” fell out of love with dance before they could even take it seriously. For whatever reason, I’ve stuck with it for 13 years, and with that, I have seen behind the baby pink and glitter. Though I cannot pinpoint when exactly it happened, mommy-and-me classes and frilly tutus became a competitive commitment. Within the blink of an eye, an eating disorder, anxiety, perfectionism, tainted self-esteem, abuse, and, arguably the most toxic, a detached yet close-knit community in existence began to consume my and numerous other competitive dancers’ lives.

For thousands of years, dance has been renowned for its unique intertwining of artistry and athleticism, showcased through various styles such as ballet, jazz, contemporary, hip-hop, ballroom, and more. It is a performative art: entertaining and therefore positive in its nature.

To ask a non-dancer what comes to mind when they hear the word “dance” generates a familiar image: one would probably begin by envisioning women and girls, likely skinny, gracefully turning and leaping to classical music on a stage with ear-to-ear smiles on their faces. Or, one would think of a shiny “sassy” jazz routine, a fiery hip-hop reel, or perhaps the Lifetime show “Dance Moms.” Whatever the image is, when it comes to dance, it is highly deceptive, as many are unaware of what goes on backstage in the studio.

For me, that is where it began, where I stood in front of a wall mirror for hours on end, multiple days a week, every week. I wore form-fitting clothing, per most dance studios’ dress code, and as I did pliés and pirouettes, I watched myself beside the other dancers, all ranging in ability and body type.

We were only seven, but from there, we developed a routine of looking back and forth at our bodies and everyone else’s. Gradually, we all developed a shared mindset that “I” had to be better and look better than everyone else. We were simply trained that way and became a team of individuals who all wanted to be better than the other. We also began to notice a pattern: those whom teachers praised were naturally thinner and more flexible dancers, while the rest were heavily criticized and told by teachers that they could “see our lunch” in our bellies.

The strange thing was that no matter how much money our parents spent on dance classes or how many mean critiques we were given in return, no one quit. We all were obsessed with the idea of one day, finally being “good,” being the praised one, being in the front of the routine, and, by extension, being thin. Slowly, I worked my way there.

Unsurprisingly, my dance teachers began to compliment me around the same time that I turned to disordered eating habits, excessive stretching, and exercise habits at home. And I kept doing them — I thought that I had finally found the perfect formula for being good, and it became an addiction. Worst yet, every dancer had been doing the same thing: we all developed eating disorders of various kinds and, subsequently, a deeply toxic relationship with dance. 

Every praise we received, even in the most subtle regard, was the euphoric fuel that kept us going. The times when a teacher kicked us out of class for not being flexible enough or told us that we were “bad” dancers who didn’t deserve our places in the studio knocked our self-esteem further down than it had ever been.

In hindsight, it sounds ridiculous. At the time, obsessive perfectionism and eating disorders were the norm, in addition to what I’ve now understood is sexual misconduct: At 13 years old, I was completely blind to the alarming “normality” of my former, straight-male dance teacher touching his underage female students in inappropriate areas, masking itself as a way to deepen a stretch. I had also accepted his gossip and bad-mouthing about some dancers to others as the norm, in addition to inappropriate costuming and conversations with students that pushed the boundaries of teacher and student. In these ways, dance became less about the art, athleticism, or even the business but rather a simple means of abuse. 

After 12 years of blindly appeasing the dance community and its toxic algorithm, I zoomed out for the first time and began to see the inside of the dance world for what it truly is. However euphoric the feeling of stepping on a stage is, and perhaps the award I received for it, the prize is a result of years of abuse and mental health struggles. Not once did I fill the pointe shoes of my ceramic ballerina in a jewelry box; not once did I look like her or become a prima ballerina. Not once was dance a sparkly, easy, and aesthetically pleasing activity that made me feel beautiful and feminine. For me and competitive dancers across the world, dance was the consumer of our entire lives that, in our naive minds, determined our value as people. 

Interestingly, I am still a competitive dancer at 17 years old. And for the first time in 13 years, I feel like I can say that I am “better” — not better than everyone else, but rather better than 13-year-old me, both as a dancer and person. I win awards, and though it took a long time, I have found enjoyment in the art itself, without the burden of needing to be the “best.” Still, I look back on my younger self, who was so infatuated with the look of dance as if it was a pink utopian fairytale, and wish she knew the mental health problems it would cause her. While I’d like to call myself a “good dancer” today, I often ask myself if it was all worth it.