Spring break took me home to Dallas this year, back to the familiar streets that once felt like my entire world. I hadn’t planned on driving by my old dance studio, but somehow, my car seemed to steer itself in that direction, as if drawn by muscle memory.
As I approached the building, a rush of emotions hit me before I even saw it. I knew exactly where it was, could picture every detail before it came into view—the brick exterior, the glass windows, the front entrance that I had walked through a thousand times, always with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. But when I finally saw it, my stomach twisted into knots. The studio stood there like a ghost of my past, unchanged, yet entirely different. The windows glowed faintly with artificial light, but somehow, it still looked dark inside.
I slowed my car as I passed, my eyes scanning the front lobby through the glass doors. There they were—young girls sitting in the same chairs I used to wait in, their legs swinging, chatting between classes. They had no idea who I was or that I had once sat there, in those exact seats, with the same dreams in my heart. They didn’t know that I had once pressed my nose to the glass of the studio doors, watching the older girls rehearse, telling myself that one day, I’d be up there too.
The flood of memories was instant. The long hallways lined with framed recital photos, the squeak of my pointe shoes on the grey floors, the sound of music drifting through the walls from every direction. I could still remember which classrooms had the best mirrors, which ones had the coldest air conditioning, and which ones had warped floors from too many years of jumps and pirouettes. Of course, I also remembered the water fountain station where I used to take careful, measured sips, making sure not to drink too much because I was afraid of feeling bloated before class.
It had been years since I stepped foot in that studio, but just seeing it was enough to bring back the worst of it—the pressure, the expectations, the way I had been made to feel like my body was the problem. Even now, after everything, I could still hear my old instructor’s voice in my head: You’ll never move up unless you lose weight. It didn’t matter how much I trained, how much I loved to dance. My body would never be “right” for them. And because of that, I convinced myself it wasn’t right at all.
I’ve been struggling with my weight again lately. I’ve been trying—really trying—to lose weight in a healthy way this time. Not starving myself, not punishing my body, not slipping back into the habits that nearly destroyed me before. Some days, I feel proud of how far I’ve come, while others, I feel like I’m right back where I started.
I parked a few blocks away and just sat there, gripping the steering wheel and listened to my heart pound. I wanted to be stronger than this. I wanted to be able to look at that place and not feel sick; not feel the weight of years of self-doubt and self-hatred pressing down on me. But maybe healing isn’t that simple. Maybe, no matter how much progress we make, there will always be places, memories, and voices from the past that still hold power over us.
So, I took a deep breath. I reminded myself that I am healing, that I am trying, that I am more than what they told me I was.
And then, I drove away.
Maybe one day, I’ll be able to walk through those doors again and not feel like I’m drowning in old wounds. Maybe one day, I’ll see that studio and only remember the good—the love I had for dance before the world told me I wasn’t built for it. Maybe one day, it won’t hurt anymore.
But for now, I’m taking it one day at a time. And that’s enough.