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The world seems fuzzy and uneven under the blinding lights. Past those lights is only vast, seemingly empty darkness, and it fills the space, fighting against the light, a tug a war between the senses, pulling me forward and back at the same time. I hear your voice, telling me to smile. And so I do, I smile, as widely as I can, masking the panic that I feel rising up in my stomach. It gives me enough ease to remember where I am. To remember all of the hours I have spent practicing, perfecting. All the hours spent listening to your voice as you walked me through the steps, taking your words and creating them into movement. I remember why I am here. As the beginning notes of music vibrate through the floor, the tenseness in my body loosens, my breath slows to a steady, even pace, and I feel alive, the blood rushing from my fingertips to my toes, tingling, heart racing. I look out into the darkness, knowing that there is an audience there, full of energetic kids, barely able to keep in their excitement, tired parents, holding the children’s hands and shushing them with smiles on their faces, expectant teenagers waiting until they can take their phones off silent, and even grandmas and grandpas, their wrinkled faces creasing as they smile patiently. I want so badly to share this feeling with them, this life with them, and so I dance.

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