Dance

The recital is a month out, and we are still not sure if she will walk onto the stage.

And honestly, it doesn’t matter.
At the end of the day, I can count on my one hand the number of adults I know who would willingly step onto a platform and twirl and point and tap all while donning a leotard.
So really, I don’t blame her. Or her hesitation. Or her fear.

Recital aside, I saw O’s passion shine through tonight, blazing past any self-doubt or worry. It was a subtle and yet beautiful display of courage that left me awestruck, a standing ovation of the heart.
And I watched her live into a reality I have been so hesitant, so fearful to even tiptoe near— let alone, in a leotard.

It was “picture night” at the studio. While the other moms were comparing the perfection of their daughters’ hair buns or their application of sleek, red gloss, I was rummaging through my purse for some Burt’s Bees to shine up O’s lips and an extra hair tie to fix her lopsided topknot. Ben raced Hot Wheels across the floor while asking (loudly) about dinosaurs and farts.
And it was never more clear to me than in that moment that I was definitely not a Dance Mom.

Not only did I feel ill-equipped, I felt judged. I was sure that my inability was interpreted by the others as a lack planning or even a lack of care for O. Guilt was as thick as the hairspray haze— lack of glitter spray, lack bobby-pin technique, lack parenting social norms.
Lack, lack, lack.

And when lack and comparison meet, shame begins to waltz into your very soul.
And shame is the internal dance I know best.
It has been my natural rhythm, the beat that motivates my step since I was a child.

Yet O. did not notice the eye shadow palates or her own wild hair frizz. She willingly accepted some glitter from another mom, took my hand, and walked down the hall with her head down, smiling at her shoes.
She was present— wrestling the attention and desire to perform— but wonderfully, whimsically present.

My heart gushed with pride:

My shy daughter may not tap or spin in the recital, but she knows how to live in her body.
She knows how to rise above comparison or imagined judgement.
Look at her. All of her is right here. Right now.

O. stood toward the back, off to the side at first. Her eyes darted across the crowd of Dance Moms and photographers and instructors who were watching anxiously, hoping for the perfect, collective smile. She kept her eyes on her shoes, the place where her body touched the floor, greeted the world.

And then her sweet teacher moved O. to the middle front and gave instructions about how the girls should hold their arms.

3-2-1. Cheese! Flash.
All the moms— even those of us who forgot the right tights and the mascara— imitated big, toothy grins behind Greg, the photographer. Each girl was our world. We all oozed love and giddy pride.

And right on cue, O’s chin flew up sky-high and her arms flailed out, curved and graceful. And she smiled with all the presence and joy and assurance I could ever hope for. She smiled because she was so whole-heartedly glad.

Back in the frenzied changing room, the girls were thrown into their next costume, and O turned to me all proud and eager: “Mom, I was nervous with everyone looking at me. But they were smiling. And I love dance and the costumes, and so I still don’t know about the recital, but maybe I’ll do it. Okay, let’s hurry.”

I sighed.
As usual, she reminded my heart of the forgotten rhythm of hope.

While I saw the room as a stockpile of mom-comparison and judgement, O. saw cheerleaders and encouragers. Even with nerves fluttering and a million faces turned toward her, she remembered the glitter and the shoes and the joy of every ballet position. Amidst the crowds there was faith and groundedness. And so in this collision of passion and natural disposition, a new possibility was were birthed.
Maybe.
Just maybe.

Because when we are seen and heard and ultimately believed in, the whole, crazy, improbability of hope can actually exist.
And we all need a little bit of hope. A little bit of '“maybe.”

After we returned home and the kids were asleep, a friend shared wise words from her therapist:

To live a life free of anxiety is to live a life free of judgement.

Its true.
To really begin to live in this perpetual clash between what is gloriously true and what is a lie— who we are and what we settle for; hope and defeat; risk and complacency— we must be free of judgement.
And that includes the imagined kind, too.

To be present in the world— body, mind, and soul— and maybe even dance, there must remember
all those who see us and believe in us,
the feeling of the being grounded in what is true and real,
and the joy of what we love.

And when we do, maybe, we will be move into freedom.