A few students yawned and we went exhaustingly over everyones solo (including my understudy part) and I decided I HAVE TO WATCH THE VIDEO OF THE BREADCRUMB VARIATION because I am being left in the dust and would soon be swept away, just like a breadcrumb. I blew my falling down hair out of my face and sighed at my messy bun in the mirror compared to everyone's pristine buns.

I might have been a bit checked out during Nutcracker, however I felt free at the same time. I danced despite what was going on in my life. As heavy as grief is, it is at the sometime freeing to know that you can go through this type of thing that you hear about your entire life (and dread, let’s be honest) and then it happens and you realize that you can get through it. You don’t have to wonder anymore if you can.

Nutcracker turned out to be a healthy dose of chaos mixed with a whirlwind of emotion, nerves and excitement. The backstage drama alternated from dancers almost fainting, losing their costumes —finding their costumes— worrying about their school bullies showing up to their performance, a few of the main acts crying from being overwhelmed, and all the best drama one could wish to experience backstage at a ballet. Everyone was sweating profusely, taking their shoes on and off from being sore and heaving in and out of breath as they rushed from onstage to offstage to do a quick change and to go back onstage. 

I cannot tell you how many countless years I have spent ruminating if I was thin enough or if I had “x”, x being whatever the current trend is. Right now, a huge-fake butt has obsessively taken over most of my thoughts for the past few years. And I live in a city where people are shelling out the cash for these trends. The BBL or injections. Constant squats-only at the gym. Using filters on social media to distort the truth. All of these ridiculous obsessions leave everyone wondering if how they look is okay…

My legs were absolutely shot from the first week back to classes, my calves trembled at the sight of a staircase. My entire body shook when I walked due to exhaustion from being on my legs and feet.

My only outlet for fitness was outdoors (and most of us because of Covid) and now we were sitting idly by, watching our computer screens and wearing even more masks, yet again.

I was feeling desperate. I had one ballet class (the only ballet class I knew of in the city) and it was tonight for one hour and I could hardly keep my composure as my toe nail throbbed and waited to fall off. I didn’t care. It would have to take a whole lot more than a broken toenail to keep me from dance class.

The corner store opens at 8:00 and all the alcoholics — that live outside or up the street in strange housing — roll up around that time to get a 40 as they talk on their phone loudly and state that they have their lives together and how they are not going to get locked up again.

…to compensate, I cut the foot out of all of my black tights of the right leg. I was a mess. It seems I needed a break. Nothing seemed right.

I stopped running four times a week. I stopped obsessing about the commute to certain studios, during certain days of the week. I ate in rich amounts and tried whole heartedly to enjoy the holidays, although they seemed lackluster and layered in stress.

I took hot baths with Epsom salt and some with bath bombs…