just dance

I used to gag watching LA Ink, as clients told the tearful stories that inspired their tattoos. It's like the awkward  break on Jeopardy, when we have to listen to the contestants and their boring anecdotes. I don't CARE. I hate when people ask what my own tattoos mean. I think aesthetic is more important than meaning. Tragedy does not excuse a shitty tattoo. But I joined the sobbing-tattoo club last week.

These are my ballet slippers. See, ballet saved my life. When I started training, I was in the midst of a teenage crisis, both typical and personal. I threw myself into schoolwork, but that wasn't enough. My longing for control spiraled into an eating disorder. My self-esteem was non-existent and I hated my body so much I starved it. I wanted to disappear.

Then I took my first ballet class and realized my body was not the enemy, but a means of expression, a piece of fucking art. It didn't matter how I looked in a bikini, as long as I worked my ass off and landed that pirouette. I never felt more beautiful than during a pirouette. A few years of intense training, including point classes, and the movements finally clicked. Ballet taught me to love my body again.

Eating disorders are a struggle that last a lifetime, but I have ballet to thank for pulling me out of that dark hole more than ten years ago.

Think of the magic of that foot, comparatively small, upon which your whole weight rests. It's a miracle, and the dance is a celebration of that miracle ~ Martha Graham