The art of losing yourself was one I was familiar with. I didn’t lose myself in things that could seriously alter my life, but in dance. Every time I stepped on to the dance floor, I felt like a new person. I felt like someone who could do anything. It gave me an adrenaline rush that could only compare to the kind you get when going on a roller coaster. It didn’t matter if I feel out of a turn, or if my jete wasn’t perfect. All that mattered was that I wasn’t me for a few hours.

I remember my first dance class like I was yesterday. I was 7 years old. I begged and begged my mom to let me take dance, just one class. One 45 minute ballet class. She finally agreed. The studio was small, just two decent size rooms with a small waiting room in between. My mom kept reminding me that I wasn’t going to be the best, and that I might not catch on as easy, and not to let that discourage me. I was somewhere in between anxious and ecstatic. When the teacher opened the door allowing all of the girls in black leotards and pink ballet shoes in, the butterflies showed up. I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I was scared. I looked at my mom and she urged me to go in, so I did.

It was the best decision of my life.

Everything about it was magical. The way every movement had a name, and how all of these movements came together to create a dance. My mom was right, I wasn’t the best. I had a hard time following. But I wasn’t going to give up. I came back the next week for another class. And every week after that.

When I danced, it was almost like there was no one else in the room. With every pique and jete my problems disappeared. And I loved it. It didn’t matter if school was bad, it didn’t matter if I was fighting with someone, all that mattered was that when I danced, I lost myself. And that’s all that really mattered.