It began at the age of six when I was playing in the park with my father. I remember jumping off of the play set too many times, resulting in a sprained ankle. My father was a registered nurse and had the knowledge on how to immediately address the sprain with introducing me to the RICE method (rest, ice, compression, and elevation). I remember feeling so much pain, yet somehow still attending my dance classes as if nothing ever happened. I don’t recall any of my teachers encouraging me to slow down or sit out to allow my ankle to rest and heal. I believe that if I hadn’t downplayed how much pain I was experiencing, they might have made an effort to ensure my rest was more important than any activity or productivity at that time. My dad laid the foundation for me to be tough, to not cry or complain when in pain, rather fight through it. He taught me that having perseverance was a good character trait, so being in pain was not an excuse to not perform at my best. These values were reinforced in my training in dance as a child and into adulthood as a professional. I taught myself to ignore the pain in order to keep pushing. Due to this, I never sought proper medical treatment for my initial sprain. I was not consistent in at- home remedies and therapies, because doing so would be an admittance to myself that the pain was real.

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Years later I would succumb to re-injuring this same ankle, mostly in classes, performances, and auditions. Each time I desperately tried to mask the agony I felt in order to continue participating in something I worked so hard for, I contributed to remaining in a chronic loop of pain. I thought if I submitted to the pain, I would lose the validation from my teachers, choreographers, and directors  and sense of belonging among my peers. I believe this stems from grind culture being so embedded into our art form, that many of us have adopted, thinking our ability to keep moving through injuries or illness measures our work ethic and dedication. This mentality runs deep in so many dance spaces from the studio to the professional stage, as it creates an inevitable burn out or total depletion, making it difficult or impossible to sustain any kind of longevity that we often seek as movers.

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I am exhausted, and I am in pain. These are words I never thought I could say, as shame has wreaked havoc on this dancing body. Stubbornness disguised as perseverance has become a sacred model of reaching a level of success that probably doesn’t exist, because it goes against the grain of what dance is supposed to bring to our lives. Dance teaches us to listen to our bodies and honor what it is saying. Sure, dance also asks us to push boundaries and defy logic, leading us to discovering things we never thought the body could do before. When we become arrogant to think that our bodies don’t have limits and allow shame  to be a driving force behind us desiring to keep going at the expense of our health and well-being, we deprive ourselves of truly honoring the sacred vessel that is our bodies. We deprive our bodies of the endless possibilities that lie ahead, as it is the central focus of what makes dance what it is--movement that initiates change and reflects larger themes of life.