Personal Essay Rough Draft

It took every ounce of incentive in me to pull the pale, pink tights up my damp, sweaty legs. They were thick and uncomfortable and I dreaded the tugging and picking and pulling of them until I could finally get the waistband to stay stationary above my clumsy hips, making a crease in my belly as I bent over. The tights weren’t the worst part, however. Next came the tight, spandex leotard that clung to every curve and every divot on my body; and looking up as I pulled the straps up and over my shoulders, I thanked the universe that at least, of all the colors, it was black. Now, as if the reflection of my silhouetted body looking back at me in the mirror, stretching along the entirety of the dance studio wasn’t self-deprecating enough, I had to put my long, brown hair up into a tight, neat bun, the last shard of security I felt I had left.

I was 14 years old, at the height of my most insecure stage in growth, and well into my freshman year of highschool. This was my first day of dance class at the studio and I dreaded being there. I loved dance but I hated ballet and this was a required class in order for me to continue dance throughout the school year. Stepping into the classroom wearing that leotard felt like stepping into that classroom naked. I had made the choice to keep my bra on under the leotard even though we were told not to, and as we began doing pirouette combinations across the studio, it became very evident that I was the only girl who had chosen to do so. In the midst of all the spinning, I was immediately called on by my instructor and she made an example out of me in front of the whole class. “This will NEVER be ok,” she said; holding me hostage at the front of the class. Everyone was looking at me, and some of the best dancers in the class were whispering and smiling; it stung.

When I returned home from class that day, I ran upstairs to my room, ripped off my leotard and pushed it to the very back of my bottom dresser drawer. That is where it remains to this very day. Being so young at the time, especially during such an awkward period of development, this one incident felt like an earthquake, and my entire world was crumbling into teeny tiny pieces. It was those girls laughing at me, and the discomfort I felt in my own skin that heightened the insecurities I felt about my body. The whole idea of Ballet stresses the importance of perfection and uniform movement. The art of Ballet is about being the same, people included. I was not the same as these girls. I looked at these girls and all I could see were a bunch of people who fit in, who were comfortable with themselves, happy being there, and all with similar body types and heights. I was short, paunchy, miserable and I certainly did not want to be there.

Throughout the time I was taking these classes, finally arriving home and taking that leotard off was the best part of my day for the longest time. Nevertheless, all the while I was in these classes for, I had failed to realize something very important. I became accustomed to placing importance in the wrong aspects of my life. I was giving value to what brought me down instead of what lifted me up, comparing myself to others instead of learning to love myself for what made me unique. I kept going to these classes because they were what I believed, at the time, to be the epitome of how I should be. I thought that if I just kept going, maybe, maybe I would magically start to dance like them, become friends with them, maybe even look like them.

It was a long time after that until I realized how wrong I was. I continued to dance throughout high school, but instead of ballet I chose to take contemporary and modern classes. These dance forms encourage outside-of-the-box thinking which is exactly what I needed. I didn’t need to conform to any image at all, I could just be myself, wear whatever I wanted, and dance how I wanted to. This really helped me to accept myself, and when the time came for me to take an extra-credit ballet intensive, I dug through my clothing to find that old leotard and I wore it with pride instead of shame. No, I didn’t look like every other girl there, but my confidence refused to budge. It took a lot of time for me to reach this point with my self-confidence, and I am still and will probably always be working on it, but I am so happy I am done caring about what others think and changing myself for other people; trying to be something I am not; but it’s a work in progress.

Now I am in college, but I still have the leotard, although I know I will never need it again. It is sitting idly, pushed to the very back of my dresser drawer at home. I haven’t thrown it out. I guess I have kept it as a reminder of what I have learned or maybe how far I have come. I still hate it. I hate it because it brings back old memories, and I never purposefully move it around or touch it, but it’s there. It will always remain there.