“Why not?”
For years, I have had the same answer. Because it isn’t realistic. My dream has always been ballet. Not a cubicle. Not a screen all day. Not the career paths that fit neatly into a five-year plan. Ballet.
I started dancing when I was two years old in a pink tiny tutu, more interested in spinning across the room than perfect technique. By eight, I was competing. Dance became my world. I spent countless hours rehearsing, performing, sweating, and striving to be better. But somewhere along the way, the thing I loved became something I dreaded. The studio where I trained valued trophies more than dancers. Success was measured by placements, not growth. The environment was toxic, and every year it became harder to remember why I had fallen in love with dance in the first place. The only reason I stayed was because of two teachers. One was my ballet teacher, Miss Denise.
Miss Denise was everything a ballet teacher is portrayed to be—strict, demanding, and infinitely focused on detail. She taught with a cane in hand and expected excellence from every dancer who walked into her classroom. Yet beneath that discipline was someone who saw potential in me before I saw it in myself.
Most dancers viewed ballet as a requirement. Miss Denise taught me it was art. She showed me that ballet was not about perfect turns or flawless leaps. It was about storytelling. To communicate emotions so powerful that words were no longer necessary. When she passed away during COVID, I experienced my first real loss.
A few months later, another teacher who meant everything to me, Miss Randi, left the studio as well. Without them, I eventually walked away. For two years, I traded dance shoes for cheerleading uniforms. I enjoyed cheer, but it never felt like home. Dance remained the language I spoke best.
Then, during my junior year, I reached out to Miss Randi. She had opened a studio of her own.
I was terrified.
What if I wasn’t as strong as I used to be?
What if everyone else had improved while I stood still?
What if I was too old?
Miss Randi welcomed me without hesitation. Her arms wide open. The past two years have been some of the hardest work of my life. She pushed me further than I
thought I could go while showing me something I had rarely experienced as a dancer: patience, empathy, and belief. She believed in me even when I doubted myself. Slowly, I began to love dance again.
But another question lingered. Could I ever truly pursue ballet?
Every time the thought entered my mind, I pushed it away. Ballerinas sacrifice their bodies. Few make a sustainable living. The odds are impossible. I convinced myself that dreams belong in childhood and practicality belongs in adulthood.
Then I met Emily. Emily is a student with autism and neuroblastoma. Her cancer and disabilities severely limit her mobility. Sure she can walk and sit independently but many of the movements I perform every day are simply not available to her.
Working with Emily changed me.
For the first time, I saw movement not as something to perfect, but as something to appreciate. Every leap, every turn, every performance became a privilege.
I realized that while I worried about whether ballet was practical, there were people who would give anything just to experience the freedom of movement I often took for granted. Emily taught me that the question was never, “What if I fail?” The real question was, “Why not try?”
Why not audition?
Why not perform?
Why not continue dancing for as long as my body allows?
Why not honor the teachers who believed in me?
Why not dance for those who cannot?
Working with Emily gave me a new perspective on both dance and my future. Her experience with neuroblastoma deepened my interest in oncology and reinforced my desire to pursue a career helping children facing serious illnesses. At the same time, her limited mobility taught me something equally important: movement is a gift. Every leap, every turn, and every performance became something I no longer took for granted.
For years, I convinced myself that pursuing ballet beyond high school was unrealistic. But Emily showed me that life is too precious to spend asking “what if.” While I plan to earn a degree in biomedical sciences and continue my journey toward a career in healthcare, I am no longer willing to abandon the dream that has shaped so much of who I am. In fact, I can’t imagine my life without it. I fully intend to continue dancing in college and hope to join a ballet company, allowing me to grow as both a student and an artist.
A scholarship would help make that future possible. It would allow me to pursue my education without letting go of the passion that has carried me through life’s most difficult chapters. Years from now, I do not want to remember the dream I talked myself out of pursuing. I want to remember the moment I finally stopped asking “What if?” and started asking “Why not”
