How It Feels to Fly(51)

“Ballet is a visual art. It’s about shapes in space. The transitions between shapes. But it’s also about the bodies that are creating those shapes. What they look like.”

“So you feel like only thin bodies belong onstage.”

“That’s not what I said.” She’s twisting my words. “And it’s not about what I think belongs onstage. It’s about what ballet company directors want. What audiences expect to see.”

In a nutshell: not you.

“When did you start seeing yourself the way you think everyone else sees you?”

It takes me a second to figure out what she’s asking. Which came first: my hatred of myself and the changes my body was going through, or my realization that other people didn’t like how I looked? Chicken or egg?

I remember a specific ballet class this past winter. After barre, I took my usual place in the front right corner of the studio for center exercises. Not the middle of the room, generally reserved for juniors and seniors, but still in the first row. I danced where I could see myself in the mirror. Where I could be seen. Back then, I liked being seen.

We started our adagio exercise, filled with one-legged balances and high extensions. As I développéd my leg up toward the ceiling, I noticed something. A small roll at my waist, like my thigh was pushing against excess flesh. I frowned at it, and then carried my leg to arabesque a count late.

Miss Elise called out, “Watch your timing, Sam!”

But I couldn’t stop watching my waist. Every movement wrinkled it in a new way. A forward port de bras gave me a pinch in the front, while an arching cambré gave me a lump of back fat. It felt like I was staring at a creature in a zoo. Or an alien. Not at the reflection I’d watched in daily ballet classes for almost ten years.

I finished the combination and stood in fifth position, breathing hard. My eyes darted around the room. In a matter of seconds, my body had become something unfamiliar and unwelcome. But had anyone else noticed?

A few weeks later, without telling me beforehand, my mom scheduled an appointment with the nutritionist who gave annual talks at our studio. He reminded me that the body is a dancer’s instrument and that eating well is like rolling out tight muscles and bathing in Epsom salts—a way to be your healthiest, best-performing self.

I heard: You’re getting fat.

My mom sat in the corner, nodding along. She stuck the charts and lists he gave me on our fridge at home, in the same place of honor where she used to put my crayon drawings of flowers and dinosaurs. Looking at the food pyramid later that night, I had my first panic attack.

Dr. Lancaster is still waiting for me to answer her. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Tell me what you do know.”

I think for a second. “I know that I love ballet.”

“Good—”

“I just don’t know if ballet loves me back.”

We sit in silence for another long second.

“Is it okay for me to love ballet, if ballet doesn’t love me back?” My voice is still hushed. I feel like I’m getting at the crux of something big.

“I can’t answer that for you, Sam. I wish I could, but there are some things you have to figure out for yourself.”

“It would be easier if I didn’t care so much.”

“That may be true.”

“But I don’t want to care less. I wouldn’t be me if I cared less.”

Dr. Lancaster leans forward in her chair. “So how do you hold on to your love for your art, while also finding a way to love your body? Can those two loves coexist?”

With that million-dollar question, she sends me on my way.





eighteen


I’M STILL THINKING ABOUT HER QUESTION ON Tuesday morning, as we walk across campus to the football field for Dominic’s challenge. Why do I continue to love something that gives me panic attacks? That makes me despise almost every inch of myself? And if I can start to accept my current body and how it will change my future, like Dr. Lancaster wants me to—a huge “if”—will I still love ballet just as much? Or will it become this thing I used to do?

I don’t want that. But I don’t want the panic or the self-hatred, either.

“What are you thinking about?” It’s Katie. She’s fallen into step with me.

“Something Dr. Lancaster and I talked about yesterday.”

“Ah. Say no more.” A beat. “Unless you want to? But no pressure.”

“How do you . . . ?” I wish it was Andrew beside me and not Katie. Not only because of my crush on him, but also because this is something I know he’ll understand. “How do you know when it’s time to quit?”

“Like, quit ballet?” Katie says. “That escalated quickly.”

“I’m not exactly planning on it. But what would make you quit gymnastics?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “If I didn’t enjoy it anymore, I’d stop.”

“But how do you know when you’re at that point?”

“I think I’d . . . know. Maybe I wouldn’t want to practice. I’d resent having to get up early to go to the gym. I wouldn’t feel like trying my best at meets.”

“That makes sense.”

“Do you still enjoy dancing?”