Living in a Retired Dancer’s Body

Image Courtesy: Hannah King

For ten years of my life, I had the same routine every day. From 7:30 a.m. to 3:10 p.m. I would go to school, followed by sessions at the dance studio from 3:30 p.m. to 10:15 p.m. 

To describe the version of myself that walked into the dance studio in the summer of 2010: seven years old, full of spunk, and confident. I had been a student in the recreational dance program for three years prior to this summer; learning a dance, performing a recital, and receiving a plastic gold trophy for participation. My young brain did not understand why my mom had sent me to dance in the summer for two weeks instead of starting me in August like most parents typically did. Two weeks later, we received a call saying great potential was seen in me, and although I went to tryouts with the intention of taking classes with advanced girls, a spot was being offered to me for the 2010-2011 mini-company competition team. Over a decade later, I still cannot express the magnitude of gratitude that I have for that studio for taking a chance on me.

Dance without a story is just movement, but when a dancer moves with intention and puts feeling into a performance to demonstrate a deeper meaning, dance becomes art. The difference between a good dancer and a great dancer is the ability to tell a story and put intention behind every move and in-between steps. Dance allowed me to learn more about myself and my abilities than I could have ever imagined. Throughout my teen years as a competitive dancer, I grew as both an artist, and as a human. In short, dance is an art form that is beautiful in a variety of ways. Yet, dance can also hurt those who dare to explore it. 

Throughout its history, dance has been closely associated with ideals of grace, beauty, and fluidity. Each is a positive quality that a dancer can possess. However, there is also a darker side to this art form: the emphasis on extreme perfection in the way a dancer’s body should look. The practice of dance can be extremely toxic as a standard of beauty that is expected to be met by young girls and developing teens.

Dancers tend to first look at the flaws when analyzing their appearance and body structure. This issue tends to go unrecognized by dance, as it is an art form driven by perfection. The stripped-down and exposing appearance of costumes and practice wear is directly correlated to the cultural emergence of a perfected aestheticized bodily form. In turn, this pursuit of perfection directly leads to a decline in dancers’ mental health and self-perception.

Culturally, dancers tend to be recognized as a complex and diverse group of individuals who strive to curate art with their bodies. They are each unique—all come from different backgrounds, yet come together to create something larger than themselves.

I have immense appreciation for the time that I spent as a competitive dancer, for it taught me a variety of values. I learned what it meant to be a team player, the difference between an internal and external win, and the definition of dedication. But I also battled with intense feelings of comparison and a lack of self-confidence in myself. I would constantly compare myself: to those competing before and after me, the girls standing next to me at the barre, those whom I trained with daily. There were many moments when I wanted to give up and throw in the towel, but time and time again I would be reminded of a dancer's greatest strength: resilience. 

I still feel that the resilience and dedication that I learned from competition dance are the two most important qualities that I hold dear. However, there are days when I still struggle with comparing— myself and my body, to those around me, to images of my 18 year-old-self. I constantly have to remind myself that I am enough. I am enough.

And so are you. You are more than your reflection in the mirror, and you certainly are more than what you give yourself credit for. 

Strike Out, 

Hannah King 

Editor: Grace Maneein

Athens