The little porcelain dancer twirls on her string before settling into place
Her pink tutu and pointe shoes reflect against the lights, giving her an almost ethereal glow
I feel a twinge of regret as I look at the ornament

Despite everything, I miss being a dancer

I didn't need friends in middle school. I had dance three times a week and homework every other day. My best friends were the girls I danced with, even though I didn't actually know them that well.

I remember the hooks where we would always put our bags. I remember the marley, the mats, the hard wood, stretching in the near silence except for the click of a clock. I dreaded hearing that clock by the end. The very air in those rooms felt suffocating to me.

Ballet was the worst. I was good at jumps. Turns, sometimes. I was powerful as a dancer, but I wasn't graceful. I wasn't tall enough, or pretty enough, to be graceful.

I remember when they decided to make a competitive team, and I didn't try out because I didn't want to know I wasn't perfect enough to make it. The girl I was closest with did of course, but she was even worse than I was. She always looked like she was spinning off her axis. All the other girls in our grade were put in the higher company, she was put in the lower.

I remember trying out pointe, and the excruciating pain my toes screamed with. Mine were always sewed slightly crooked, and I never could figure out how the ribbons were supposed to wrap around my ankles.

I made excuses, anything to not go to class. The amount of classes I took slowly dwindled, but even the ones I thought I loved, the slow ticking of the clock made me shudder.

I was a dancer. It was every part of my identity. It tore me apart when I decided to stop.

I quit.

I watch the dancer ornament press against the Christmas tree, hiding herself. That was what dance was for me. Now, instead, I twirl around myself in the living room, hair hitting against my back, no more bun.

*I let myself be free...