By Lindsay Detwiler 
My potentially ill-fitting ballet shoes from Amazon on my feet and my all-black outfit strategically selected to blend in, I skidded across the glossy dance floor, nervously eyeing the other women already sitting in a circle. I was a few minutes late and flustered, not the attention-inciting entrance I wanted to make on my first class. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to run for the door, leaving my water bottle behind along with my momentary faux bravado. I looked at the barre and the mirrors and thought to myself, Why were you such a fool to assume you could even try this?
The instructor welcomed me in, though, so I told myself to breathe and be brave, clinging to the mantra and reminding myself that if it went poorly, at least it would make for a good blog post. As the women talked about why they were taking the adult ballet class, though, I calmed down. My worst fears leading up to the moment were assuaged; no one introduced themselves as a former Rockette, and once we got started with the actual class, I realized the description of the class was accurate. It really was for beginners like me, someone who had never taken a single ounce of dance class in her life. And for the next hour, I not only survived, but I was awakened to a passion I hadn’t felt in a long, long time thanks to the pressures of adult life most of us know too well.
At the age of 36, I did something that scared the life out of me: I signed up for my first ballet class. Why? A lot of reasons, I think. Dance was something I always wished I had learned, but assumed I’d missed the boat on. I didn’t grow up in a dance kind of family, and it felt like something you did from the time you could talk—or you didn’t at all. Affirming my misconceptions, the only beginner classes in my area were for toddlers. No one was giving thirtysomethings a chance to put on a tutu and give it a try. I shoved the dream aside like so many of us do.
But a few weeks before Christmas, I saw an ad on Facebook that changed everything. It was for an adult beginner ballet class at a local college in the new year. I told myself it was my sign to try something new and go after my childhood dreams. Emboldened by my dedication to adventure for the coming new year, I got out my credit card and paid the tuition fee without giving myself a chance to back down.
I don’t think I just signed up for the class because of childhood dreams. For me, it was about breaking up the monotony of life. A few years earlier, I had left my teaching job of 10 years for a new career after I’d lost my zest for teaching. Since that move, I’ve realized life isn’t lived in humdrum monotony; changing jobs opened possibility in my life, something I’ve been seeking ever since. I want to learn, to grow, to explore, to adventure, and ballet class felt like a great way to keep that mantra going because, quite frankly, it scared me to death.
It all sounds lofty and inspiring, right? Case closed, do a fancy pirouette, right? Except after I clicked “Register,” a big problem cropped up: my lack of confidence.
To understand why taking a ballet class was such a monumental thing, you have to know a little bit about my athletic history. It basically doesn’t exist. I was the straight-A student who got a B in gym class because her mile was too slow and she couldn’t touch her toes. I was the girl who was always getting hurt in gym class, the one whose mother signed her up for soccer in third grade, which led to her scoring two goals for the other team in the championship. In short, athleticism, coordination, flexibility—these have never been areas I feel confident in. To put on dance shoes and even attempt the athleticism it takes to do ballet was so far out of my comfort zone, I thought I might back out before that first class.
I’d like to tell you this story is about how I discovered I’m a ballet prodigy, that I’m on my way to Broadway after six months of class. I’d like to tell you I was a natural, that I was able to perfect all the fancy techniques in just a few weeks of hard work. But this isn’t a fairytale or a cutesy movie. This is real life, and the truth is I’m not perfect at ballet. Not at all.
I’m pretty sure there are times my very sweet and talented instructor feels deep pain inside at what is probably an egregious error in my posture. There have been two classes now where I’ve pulled a muscle… on the warm-up stretches (Of course, I keep the ballet smile on my face because even if it’s dangerous, I’m not going to be the one to admit I pulled a groin muscle on a simple stretch). And I know the “toes pointed” reminders are usually for me. My highest leg extension is embarrassingly low to the ground, and I have to constantly remind myself to keep my back straight so I don’t accidentally twerk in class (which, yes, is something that happened even though I’m pretty sure I can’t even twerk). In truth, I’m not a prodigy or good at ballet. Not at all.
But do you know what I am?
Impassioned. Awakened. Alive.
And that’s worthy of any possible embarrassment in my book.
The thing is, taking my first ballet class was never actually about the dancing. It was about learning confidence in myself by trying something new and terrifying. I can feel myself growing more confident in all areas of my life because I know I can do things that scare me and not only survive, but thrive. When I walk out of the dance studio, I always have the biggest smile on my face and a new sense of excitement for life that a 40-hour week job in a cubicle sometimes destroys.
I can’t explain it, but dancing for an hour every week brings such peace to my soul. When I’m on that dance floor, I’m not thinking about to-do lists or failures or what I should be doing. I’m thinking only about the moment, about my body, and about trying to keep up. Some of it is because I’m so bad that I have to put all my energy into focusing. Regardless, the peace that comes in a crazy world during that hour is nothing short of a miracle for someone like me.
The other change I’ve noticed? I’m less critical of my body, my weight, and my appearance. I know that sounds crazy. I’m in tighter clothes and all sorts of positions staring at myself in the mirror, but I’m telling you that I no longer look at myself with disdain. I’m not eyeing up the pudgy stomach rolls or cellulite on my thighs or arms I usually think look too big in pictures. I look at my body now as a strong foundation for movement. I study the lines and curves and postures to get them just right. Ballet has taught me a more objective eye for my body, something I didn’t realize would be so empowering. I stand taller now. I’m kinder to my body.
But the biggest benefit of taking ballet—or anything new, I think—is that it reminded me it’s okay to love something you’re bad at. I’m a recovering perfectionist, something that creeps into all aspects of my life. I hold myself to ridiculous standards at work, with my dreams, with everything. But ballet has never been about trying to get to Swan Lake productions or the big stage at all. It’s about doing something that scares me, learning something new, and finding a new passion, which I have.
It’s been a year and a half since I took that first class. Ballet still lights me up. My husband built me a dance studio in the basement, and I take online and in-person classes. I’m even going to a more formal ballet class an hour away this summer. I’ve improved in so many ways, and my body has noticeably changed.
Despite all of my impassioned practice, I doubt I’ll make it to Swan Lake or pointe shoes… but that’s okay. Because it’s already about so much more than that.
Ballet gave me back a confidence I didn’t know I needed, and a peace in my soul I didn’t think was possible.
Most of all, what it’s taught me—and what I hope my story has taught you—is that it’s never too late to learn Swan Lake… or whatever that thing is you’re interested in.
It’s never too late to try something new that excites you, that moves you, that makes you feel alive. Because isn’t that what this whole life should be about?
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Morgan Morris 
by Emily Donehoo 
