I never thought I’d write about this. My fingers tremble just typing the words. Dancing… it was my everything, then my downfall. After everything that happened – the betrayal, the loss – I swore I’d never step near a studio again. The silence felt safer. But lately, something’s shifting. I found an old pair of ballet slippers buried in my closet. Just holding them made my chest ache. But instead of throwing them out, I kept them by my bed. I’ve started moving again, just a little. In my tiny apartment, when no one’s watching, I’ll stretch or practice a simple plié. It’s clumsy, nothing like before. But there’s a whisper of joy there, fragile as a spider’s web.
I’m terrified, Anonymous. What if I fail again? What if the old pain comes rushing back? But maybe… maybe failure isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s just a step. I’ve been reading about other dancers who lost their way and found it again. They say it’s about the journey, not the destination. I want to believe that. I want to dance not for applause, but for myself. For the way my body feels when it moves freely. For the escape into music. It’s a tiny spark right now, but I’m holding onto it.
I don’t know where this will lead. Maybe I’ll never perform again. Maybe I’ll just dance in my living room forever. But that’s okay. Because for the first time in years, I feel something stirring inside me that isn’t fear or shame. It’s hope. A tiny, trembling hope. And that feels like the bravest thing I’ve done in a long time. Thank you for reading this, Anonymous. Your quiet presence here means more than you know.
>Soulkyn