I came into this Earth a performer. One of my first memories was burning my butt on a fireplace while performing a one-man show for my extended family. My childhood was dotted with acting and singing, chasing (and finding) the spotlight. At twelve, I discovered the gift of dance.

 

It was love at first rehearsal. Jazz, hip hop, tap, lyrical. I wanted it all. It didn’t take long, though, to uncover that my deepest, truest love was not just for the act of dance itself, but for the craft of choreography. It wasn’t enough to do the moves — I wanted to make them up. I spent most of my time dreaming up dances in the empty studios between rehearsals. Choosing songs, creating moves, telling stories. Having no idea just how crucial to me it was.

 

As high school came to a close, my focus shifted to my future. My dedication to the craft of choreography waned. Like Andy in Toy Story, I discarded what I once cherished in favor of something that seemed more alluring, more exciting — growing up. In college I kept the embers alive by joining a student-run dance company that allowed me to choreograph one new piece each semester, but by the time I moved to New York City and settled deeper into the promise of adulthood, the fire went out completely.

 

It was a traumatic ending, really. I had taken a class at Broadway Dance Center at the age of 21. The class was difficult. The others were talented. My five-or-so years without proper training lent it impossible to execute the whips, turns, and kicks in the combination. I felt ashamed and embarrassed at the back of the class, but when the instructor called for “just the boys” to do it in front of everyone, my fate was sealed. There were only three of us. I couldn’t hide my incompetence. My frustration. I haven’t stepped foot in a New York dance studio since.

 

I spent the rest of my twenties feeling immensely unsettled for a reason I couldn’t place. My career, which I thought would serve as my soul’s North Star, wasn’t filling the void. I was unhappy with my life, struggling daily with the looming feeling that a deep part of me was not being expressed. I thought maybe my career choice was wrong — that I’d be better suited as a psychologist. An architect. I applied to graduate programs. I hopped to new jobs. I smoked a lot of weed and vented about how unhappy I was to anyone who would listen.

 

This included my Aunt Sara. I detailed to her my latest confusions on a Sunday phone call, walking aimlessly around Bed-Stuy. She offered an unexpected perspective: “Do you think that all of this could maybe just be one big distraction? I think that what you’re really supposed to be doing is dance.”

 

It’s a jarring feeling. To be truly seen after a lifetime of asking people to see me. I knew to a greater degree than I wanted to admit that her hunch was true. But I didn’t yet know how to claim it.

 

“Just go do it.” She urged. “Don’t think about it.” She doubled down on her conviction.

“I really, truly believe that each day you dance, you make this world a better place.”

 

That afternoon I threw on a hoodie and filmed myself making up some moves in Washington Square Park. The world didn’t seem any better, but I, for one, felt great.

 

Last summer I received a text from Corrin Norris, a teacher at my home dance studio in Pensacola. When I met her, she was maybe three. Now she’s 20-something, a brilliant dancer and choreographer, in many ways wiser and more mature than I. She told me she was putting together a Christmas showcase and wanted to know if I would choreograph a piece. She already had the song in mind — “Grows Old” by Thirdstory. Without hesitation I obliged. When God calls, I’ve learned, you pick up the phone.

 

The first time I listened to the song, I didn’t connect with it. I wasn’t quite sure how my life aligned with the lyrics. I played it over and over again, on and off for several months without making up a single move. Sometimes, I’ve learned, God can take a while to call you back.

 

One night, perhaps in early October, I played “Grows Old” in my headphones once more. I was going through the toughest phase of the toughest period of my life thus far. Connor and I were on a break. I was living alone, coming nose to nose with my shadow and undergoing twice-weekly treatment for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a mental condition that feels like non-consensually sparring with the devil himself. In the months leading up to that evening, I had begun a disciplined practice of moving though reality in a new way. Facing head-on both my fear of living and my fear of death. Putting aside parts of myself that had stopped serving me long ago and remembering parts that I had once left behind.

 

As the song played, I relaxed my muscles. I let my limbs absorb the music. I let my heart soak in the lyrics. I started to move, allowing my body to take the lead. Tiny strings of choreography began to cobble themselves together. As the dance made its way into the room, I started to sob. Something was materializing that I hadn’t fully realized I’d lost. It came from within me but then moved through me as me. Shapes, levels, tension, intensity, musicality, pacing, love. The craft came back to me like riding a bike but felt beyond my control like painting a picture. Four dancers would become the paintbrush. My choreography the paint.

 

I set the piece on Collyns, Addy, Emma, and Aubrey. We had two rehearsals before they performed it — December 22nd. Liz and her mom Vicki came to watch the show. I joined them in the seat they saved for me. Second row center. When “Grows Old” came on stage, the experience felt surreal. It all happened right in front of my face, but I left with the feeling that I couldn’t actually see it. It’s hard to see really big things from really up close.

 

Five days ago I got a text: “You just won a choreography award!!!!!”

 

“Grows Old” was competing at Starpower Dance competition in Mobile, Alabama. I held the phone to my chest and took a deep breath in. My eyes began to water. It was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a really long time. Like, in some small but significant way, the world had become — if only for a moment — a little bit better place.

 

____

 

Can I take your hand?

Do you understand?

You found my heart broken and

you helped me make it whole

 

I’m starting to feel

I’ve found something real

The thought of you fills me with

A warmth I’ve never known

 

Hold my heart ‘til it grows old

Hold my heart ‘til it grows old

 

Our love stays the same

Through time’s endless change

I promise from now ‘til death

You’ll never be alone

 

Hold my heart ‘til it grows old

Hold my heart ‘til it grows old

 

____

 

 

A few things I’m thankful for:

- The sweet, sweet gift of dance

- The millions of cool native Californian plants that I get to walk by every day

- My Nani :)

 

 

Pop culture things I’m thinking about:

- Dune 2 kinda rocked tbh

- At first I felt meh about Deeper Well by Kacey. But as I’ve sat with it, I’m really loving it. It’s got something sweet and special.

- I’m sorry but Eternal Sunshine still slaps. Ari really outdid herself with this one.

 

 

A random journal entry:

4.6.23

I refuse to believe that we must lose what we love to learn our greatest lessons

I say keep what you love and get rid of the rest

 

 

A random thought:

The worst part about vacuuming is stepping on a tiny little speck of something as soon as you put the vacuum away :’)

 

____

 

Thanks for reading :) Talk again soon.