Hello, my name is 7.
I can never seem to get the number pinned on my shirt straight enough. My skin is crawling over electric rocks, and my organs are performing an Olympic Gold Medal floor routine, and the counts fly around my head, barely making it to my ears.
My internal narrative is consumed by a presidential level debate:
Be yourself, just do the counts, what do they want? what do I stand by? do I want this? fuck are these the counts? damnit what am I aware of? what is my intention? just point your toes, shit that was wrong, am I being myself? does that matter? why am I here? and….who am I?
"We've seen enough."
The front of the room gathers to debate as a clump of anxiety coagulates into the center of the studio.
They call out numbers "1, 5, 8, 11..." I stop listening. A numbness descends and cold water fills my spine. It's over.
A swell of emotions crashes in my chest. I tell myself that I am confident in my skills, that it just wasn't the right fit, that this was meant to happen.
That all feels like a lie. I'm hurt. I feel rejected. I'm ashamed for feeling rejected. Why did I need their approval? Why isn't mine enough?
I hop over the Atlantic and land back inside the fluorescent studio space. I step across a gap that has now wedged itself between this space and me. This doesn't feel like home anymore. I'm throwing my weight around, feeling a swing of empty passion slosh inside my muscles. What is the point? My skin feels bloated, a few sizes too big. My brain bounces back and forth between crying and screaming. What am I doing here?
Anouk walks to me after class. "You really love to dance." I am shocked. Do I?
My eyes sweat, "I feel like I'm losing my passion." Her eyes give me a hug "that's okay, it will come back".
I'm surrounded by people but I'm alone. My friends' laughter dances across my skin not able to penetrate the barrier of steel sorrow. What am I doing here? What do I want? My future bursts through the front door, a stampede of emptiness sucking up the light. I sit and wait for the tidal wave to arrive. Did I waste these years? Did I do the right things?
I'm waiting for the subway and the tears break through my closed eyes. Lua and Noah scaffold the space around me with kindness and support. The words hover and slip through the cracks in my heart. The cracks become breaks and the breaks fall to pieces.
I'm back in the studio pointing my toes and moving my arms. Francesca pulls me aside at the end of ballet, there are already waterfalls hiding in my head. She says words that touch my heart and massage out the built up acid of self-doubt. Something like: "I think you should prioritize your radicalism, that is what is so inspiring about you. You don't have to conform to other systems you don't fit into. Keep searching for the right fit because it is out there. This life is about being fulfilled, being happy. If not, what's the point?"
And I remember…
The lights turn on and the shadows retreat.
I am a fucking revolutionary.
My love to dance can never be measured or compared.
It just is.
It exists.
I have something to offer, and I am excited to keep learning.
I trust I know how to find my path.
Every moment is here for a reason. This rejection was an opportunity for me to come back to myself. I sit with the sorrow because it has something to teach me. I befriend the shadows to learn their stealth.
What is success to me? Success is discovering joy where there was only frustration. Success is chewing on every moment like the last piece of cake. Success is spreading compassion and love wherever I go. Success is saying no to the things that won't fulfill.
My arms are floating to the side, a small lifetime has begun. Bobbi looks around the room smiling, "feel the burn?" We feel it. We laugh. "You'll miss it when it's gone".
I'll miss it when it's gone.
I miss it already.
Thank you.