Realizing Home

It is the first slightly summery-warm day in New York City in months. Every year, this particular first day of warmth and sun is a call to celebration for every New Yorker from every borough. We’ve made it through the harsh winter months, and we can look forward to a brighter future in the outdoors once again. High school students, like clockwork, cancel their after-school activities and travel to the Great Lawn in Central Park in huge packs. Upon making it to the lawn, they spread out on the grass, gossip, tan, enjoy and spend quality time with their friends.

“Look at them go,” I said to my friend Lizzy.

“I know,” she replied, “what a concept—having ‘after school’ free-time.” We agreed that we wondered, truly, what it felt like to experience such a sense of freedom to socialize with friends and relax at the end of a school day.

We were standing on the outdoor balcony of the Rose Building at Lincoln Center, the building that houses the Juilliard School, the School of American Ballet, New York City Ballet rehearsal studios, and the Juilliard and School of American Ballet student dormitories and cafeteria. From this spot, we could peer down at these joyful students as they walked with their friends to Central Park on a Friday afternoon. It was 4:00 p.m., which, for a typical high school student, meant the start of the weekend.

For ballerinas, on the other hand, we still had another ballet class to go, perhaps a rehearsal, and then Saturday morning appointments: pilates in the morning, ballet technique class, pointe class, ballroom class, perhaps a music history class, and another rehearsal. Our weekends did not truly begin until Saturday afternoon, and our weekdays did not end until 7:00 p.m. at the earliest. We left our high schools early every day to attend ballet classes, and we were in the studio rain or shine, with complete dedication, and without cancelation. The worst part of my day was the moment when I finally sat down at my desk in my bedroom at 9:00 p.m., exhausted physically and emotionally from the day, yet committed to studying late into the night to pass my academic classes.

The idea of living a normal teenage life always lived in the back of my mind. It was difficult not to compare myself to those of my high school peers who started their homework immediately after school ended at 3:00 p.m. each day, but I knew that I was fortunate enough to be at a ballet school and to study something I was deeply passionate about. While I always daydreamed and fantasized about having a social life and attending parties, there was never a question of whether ballet was worth it. I knew it was. I acknowledged that, in the short-term, it would be extremely difficult and taxing, yet I knew that there had to be something I would gain from the experience that would help me in the future. As a result, I put my faith in that feeling and kept at it each and every day, hoping that the something I was doing all of this for would reveal itself to me soon.

When I was in a ballet class at the School of American Ballet, I experienced a certain type of magic—an addiction to the feeling of executing a combination to the best of my ability. There was no greater thrill than performing a ballet combination in class and receiving a simple “good, Katherine” from one of my teachers. I fed on that “good” to survive. It was an awful class when I received no affirmation, and it was a terrible day when I did not understand a correction I had received before. That said, the magic came when, after days or weeks of trying to apply a correction, it finally clicked. “Good, Katherine! That’s it!” And that was all I needed. My muscle-memory kicked in, I knew I had improved as a dancer, and my hard work was paying off. I felt like a rockstar or a princess—maybe both.

While discipline and a hard-working nature will always be the primary skills I gained and fine-tuned from my years of ballet training, I gained something significantly more valuable, and for this gift, I would gladly go back and make each sacrifice all over again. I gained an eternal dedication to myself.

Many ballerinas grow up having experienced emotional abuse or a toxic environment, yet I did not. I was fortunate enough to experience an environment in which I received tough love and grew from the experience. At the time, I was a young teenager who grew up at a ballet school and knew nothing other than the diligent ballet-student lifestyle. It would take me until I was in college to realize that the sacrifices I made for an environment that pushed me to always work on myself left its mark on me as a person and global citizen—my personality is based upon a foundation of self-improvement and reflection. I will always have a love of learning new things and advancing my skills because I was trained within that mindset for fifteen years. It will never leave me. It is me.

At such a young age, I was forced to work hard and learn the lesson that the decision to sacrifice now leads to results later. This is not necessarily something that every child is forced to understand until, perhaps, a Friday night in college must be spent studying for an exam rather than out at a social event. These decisions I must make for myself come naturally now as a result of the unique childhood experience I had in the ballet world. For young dancers, ballet training is, in itself, a commitment to dedicate years of sacrifice for a future career. While I chose not to dance professionally, the sacrifices translated, instead, to the future I have chosen off the stage. Wherever I may go in life, I will always value hard work not simply as hard work, but as self-love. In other words, I know that the discipline I have is a result of my years of ballet training, and I am unafraid to continue making sacrifices for the person I will be in ten, twenty, or fifty years.

Just last night, in need of a college study break, I pulled into a parking lot to pick up takeout and a milkshake from a new restaurant near Wake Forest. When I pulled in, I found myself facing a small ballet school I never even knew existed. Through the brightly-lit windows, I saw young girls rushing into their pointe class, sewing their ribbons, tightening their buns, and pulling up their tights. Older students were in the studio recalling choreography they were probably about to dance for their ballet teacher. They appeared focused, prepared, and excited to take on the evening of dancing.

I sat there in my car for a minute. The vision brought back all of my fondest memories of dancing. I felt almost as though I had taken a long journey away from home, gotten lost, and finally found home again. I suddenly felt a sense of love and compassion for all of these young dancers, as well as a feeling of empathy for the sacrifices I knew they were making for themselves, just as I once did.

As I peered through the windows as an outsider—now a student with after-school activities and time to tan on the Quad socializing with friends—I realized one thing. The young version of myself who daydreamed about what it would be like to be normal would soon realize that she never would be, regardless of whether she danced or not. As a young ballerina, every day in the studio, and every sacrifice she made, left a permanent mark on her heart. Forever, no matter what stage of life she is at or how often she dances, she will always be a ballerina. A ballerina is not a dancer, or a student, or even an artist alone. A ballerina, no matter who she is, is an individual forever designed to love herself by embracing her passions first and foremost.

These young dancers are only at the beginning. The end I have reached is only the beginning.

I realize now that my ballet journey will never leave me.

I will forever be a ballerina.