It’s been years since I last laced up a pair of pointe shoes, but ballet hasn’t left me. Not really.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I find myself back in the same halls I walked for over a decade. My dreams pull me back to the long mirrors, the smooth wooden floors, the scent of rosin and sweat. I roam through the space in silence, watching my reflection move like a ghost—still in a leotard, still trying to be perfect. The mirrors are always a little warped in those dreams, just as they were in real life, distorting not only the body but the mind.
I miss it. I do. The movement, the music, the deep connection to something beyond words. I miss the friends I saw every day, the ones who grew up with me at the barre. I miss the teacher who never made me feel small—Miss Meredith. She was the light in a place that sometimes felt dark. She spoke to us like we were people first and dancers second, and her words never left scars.
But most of it? I ran from it. And even now, I’m still running.
When I quit ballet, I didn’t give people a chance to say goodbye. I didn’t reach out or let anyone reach in. I disappeared. I didn’t want to explain the shame, the pain, the exhaustion of trying to exist in a world where my worth felt tied to the width of my waist or the sharpness of my collarbones. I needed to cut it all off—to sever the limb before it poisoned me completely.
Now, I carry the weight of those goodbyes left unsaid. I think about the girls I used to stretch with before class, the friends I leaned on after a hard rehearsal, the people who made me laugh when everything else felt too heavy. I wish I could see them again. I wish I could tell them it wasn’t about them—that my leaving was never personal. It was survival.
Still, even sleep doesn’t offer an escape. I dream of instructors watching me in silence, of whispered critiques that echo louder than any applause ever did. I hear voices telling me to eat less. To be smaller. To never take up too much space.
The most heartbreaking part? Some of those voices were mine.
I internalized the pressure so deeply that I began enforcing it myself. I policed my meals, measured my body against others, punished myself for imperfections no one else noticed. I thought discipline meant deprivation. I thought being a “good dancer” meant sacrificing comfort, health, and sometimes even joy.
I now know that wasn’t true—but knowing and unlearning are two very different things.
Every day now, I try. I try to eat without guilt. I try to move my body in ways that feel good, not punishing. I try to rest without earning it. Some days are better than others. Some days I still feel the urge to shrink, to disappear. But I remind myself that healing isn’t linear. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever dance again—not professionally, not even in a studio. Just… for me. For the version of me who used to twirl barefoot in her bedroom, before ballet became so entangled with pain. Maybe one day I’ll play a song I love and let myself move without mirrors, without judgment, without needing to be anything other than free.
I also think about Miss Meredith a lot. About how rare it was to have someone in the ballet world who didn’t make our worth contingent on our bodies. She saw the artistry in all of us. I wish I had told her how much she meant to me. I wish I had thanked her for being kind in a space where kindness was often seen as weakness.
If you’re reading this and you relate—if ballet or sports or life in general has made you feel like you’re only valuable when you’re less—I want you to know you’re not alone. It’s okay to miss the good parts while acknowledging the pain. It’s okay to mourn what you lost and what you gave up to survive. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to heal slowly.
And if you still hear those voices, if your dreams still take you back to the places that hurt you, know that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re still processing. Still living. Still healing.
I may never be able to forget the things I saw and felt and heard in those studios, but I am learning to reclaim my story. One memory at a time. One meal at a time. One dream at a time.
I don’t want to be a ghost of who I used to be. I want to become someone new—someone softer, stronger, more forgiving. Someone who honors the past but doesn’t live in it.
So if tonight I dream of ballet again, I’ll try to stand tall, not to shrink. I’ll try to see myself not as a reflection in a warped mirror, but as a whole person. A dancer still, perhaps. But one with both feet finally grounded in the life I’m building.