Ballet.

Nobody understands ballet. Not like I do. It’s a little like killing yourself slowly, letting your leg muscles grow only to break down your ankles and knees in the process, their support system. And once you’re in your thirties, it all comes crashing down like a house of cards.

But we dance anyway, willingly. It’s the art that sustains us. It’s the exhilaration of living, breathing art that gives us the life we crave when we kill ourselves in every other way possible.

I’ve met so many girls who have quit, or wanted to. Ballet is money, endless hours, and social seclusion. It’s the money that binds the would-be quitters with the die-hards. Too much money invested in ankle injuries to leave, more tutus than pairs of blue jeans lining their closets. Too much life missed for a special relationship with the ballet bar.

I am not one of those girls. Started at six, fell in love at six and a half. When I’m on stage, en pointe, the only thing anchoring me is the pain. Symbiosis in pink silk.