Growing up, I had always wanted to be a dancer. But with a family full of athletes, dancing wasn’t something that had ever been deemed acceptable. The older I got (I was recently called an old maid by my father for being 35 and still single), the more I realized dancing was something I could not put off any longer. I started by enrolling in a beginner ballet class at the local art and drama school. We started with the basics and I quickly noticed how far behind I was compared to everyone else. I had always been fairly flexible, but my body didn’t seem to move with the same fluid grace everyone else’s did.
I was worried that I would be made fun of for my lack of training and knowledge, but I quickly found the other dancers to be supportive of my decision to start dancing. Most of them had danced before and were helping me get started. I was determined to be the best dancer I could be, but knew it would take time and hard work. Everything seemed to be going smoothly as I made new friends, learned as much as I could and took as many classes as I could afford. Until my father found out. You would think being a working adult would shelter me from my father and his tantrums. I knew it was over the moment he showed up drunk at a show with clenched fists and a bat in the car.