When I dance, I am a trio.
There are three of us. The dancer I remember being at my peak, the dancer I feel myself to be inside my body while I’m moving, and the dancer who looks back at me from the mirror.
Arguably, we have all always danced better in our heads than we do in our bodies. That’s not an unfamiliar reconciliation for any dancer.
However, with the passing of time, these three dancers have become noticeably more distinct from one another. Where they used to be shadows of each other and shadows of myself, they feel much more like individual people dancing beside me.
I spent years of my life training, the purpose being improvement.
And as a young and dedicated dancer, the structure works.
Are your lines stronger?
Is your extension higher?
Are your jumps higher?
Can you move faster?
Is your technique cleaner?
Are you better?
Are you better?
Are you better?
Improvement was the goal. The reward. The dopamine of improvement was enough to push me forward, to try again.
However, the peak of what one is capable of often comes very young, and constant training is a must.
And now, at the age of 44, the identity of being a dancer very much engraved on my soul, I’m confronted with the reality that constant improvement is no longer a realistic expectation.
You’ve spent decades training your eye to recognize every technical imperfection. Every movement examined with the intention of improvement, correction, refinement.
And now you’re turning that same critical eye on a body that may never again be capable of what it once was.
Your mind knows exactly what’s being asked of your body. You’ve executed these movements thousands of times. You know what they’re supposed to look like. You remember what they’re supposed to feel like.
But now there’s pain. Resistance. Physical limitations. Sometimes the inability to do something that once felt completely ordinary.
And the frustration, oh, the frustration.
And admittedly, more often than not, that makes it a lot less fun.
When being a dancer is so ingrained in your identity that you can’t stop, but getting better is no longer a realistic expectation, what happens now?
And perhaps that’s where these three dancers find themselves now. One remembering what I was capable of, another still feeling every movement as though nothing has changed, and the third reminding me of the reality of where I am today.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get them to agree.
And maybe I don’t need to.
I can’t claim that I have the answer to this question. But what I do know is that “stop dancing” isn’t it.
Turning my attention away from what I’m capable of and toward what the experience brings me is a shift I’m working to embrace.
How it feeds my creativity, my well-being, my soul, my joy.
And perhaps learning to value those things as much as I once valued improvement is the work I have ahead of me now.
Keep showing up,
Ellen
Memoirs From the Dance Floor
