The Girl in the Mirror - Ruby Dilts

By Ruby Dilts The Girl in the Mirror

“I’m lighter!” my best frenemy Brittany said. No response from the studio full of dancers. “Guys! I’m lighter! I think it would be better to lift just me.” My trademark side eye was enough to shut her up, but the words had already been said. Brittany and I had been double cast as Clara, the lead role in The Nutcracker, and our seventh grade selves were rather lacking in maturity and tact. Fast forward to contemporary rehearsal about a month later. We were both lifted at different times in the dance. She frequently complained to our teammates that I was too heavy for the stunt. It wasn’t until an older, elite level dancer pulled her aside that she snubbed the snide comments. I’ve been told my body is a gift. Sometimes I believe it, sometimes I don’t. They say it’s a tool, something to be valued and taken care of. In the dance world though, the opposite is often amplified. Our directors never intervened in these situations. To me, this reinforced the idea that my body was not the ideal dancer body. That it really wasn’t a dancer body at all. My mom had always wanted a little girl who was a dancer, but my dad was adamant that dancing had to be my dream rather than hers. At the time, my dad was a high school principal. My family would frequently tag along when he had football game duty on Friday nights and I’d spend most of the night trailing behind the pretty girls in red lips and sequined uniforms. This fascination was my mom's green light to put me in a dance class. What started as a four year old ballet class ignited into a lifelong passion. I’d ask my mom daily if it was dance day and walk away dejected if it wasn’t. Eventually, every day became dance day, and I was elated. Dance had always been my safe space, but comments like Brittany’s stirred the pot of insecurity. Clad in nothing but spandex in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors twenty hours a week, my demise was inevitable. I knew that nourishing my body was the only way it would be able to meet my demands, but my insecurity threatened to boil over like a pot of water. My mom told me that I should be grateful for my body and proud of my muscular figure, but I didn’t buy it. Sure, those muscles were the reason l was frequently referred to as a powerhouse by judges on the competition circuit, but I didn't always appreciate their appearance. I’d never have that graceful Rockette figure, and I hated myself for it. While I wasn’t overweight, I thought my thighs should be smaller. My stomach should be flatter. I needed to be thinner. I’d ignore hunger in the name of thinning myself. Thinning myself to look more like the dancers who found success. Industry ideals don’t favor 5’2”, 130 pound, muscular girls. My own nagging thoughts swirled like storm clouds in my brain. I realized though, that if I’d never have a ballerina body, striving for it was futile. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find a place in this industry, but I knew I had to try. I began to notice dancers who looked like me— short and strong. They were booking jobs in L.A., dancing in commercials, and teaching professionally. I started believing that I could find a place in this industry too. Rather than loathing my body for its lack of ethereal elegance, I began to thank it for the power and strength it allowed me to dance with. I stopped looking at the girl in the mirror with disappointed eyes, and instead thanked my reflection for being exactly what it was. I’m grateful for an industry that’s growing to make room for dancers of all body types, but I’ve learned that my value doesn’t lie in industry standards. My talent isn’t defined by the number on the scale, and I’m just as worthy of food as the next girl.