There used to be fairy glitter on my wrist.

I started dancing at eighteen months old, and at three, I took my first official class at my studio. I don’t remember a day when I wasn’t a dancer. My first memories are at that small, old studio. My feet sliding on that worn marley, with the faded fairy lights, under the noisy tin roof. 

My teacher was Ms. Anna, whom I still see to this day. She played an audio called “Mr. Owl”. The audio would say basic tap steps over and over again, and I would repeat them.  She also put stickers on each of my shoes to help distinguish my left and right feet.  We then got out small traffic cones, ribbons, balance beams, and bean bags. The class discovered movement through these various objects, similar to an obstacle course. The end of class was what I looked forward to most each day. Ms. Anna would gently command the class to line up, followed by a dusting of her “magic fairy glitter” on the wrist. It was marvelous. My three-year-old self cherished each dusting of fairy glitter because it made me feel like a princess.

By the time I was six, I was in the company. Gone were the days of fairy glitter and obstacle courses; now I had rehearsals way past my bedtime. Maybe the magic was over, but the real fun was just getting started.

We danced a lot. But just as often, we played games such as tag, hide-and-seek, and, most importantly, “family”. Unfortunately, I was always appointed the baby, which was not a desired role in the game. Sadie was the mom. Nina was the sister. I was the baby. Bella was the dog. There was a hierarchy to this legendary game. I knew deep down that the baby was better than the dog.

These girls did not become my lifelong best friends, but in the moment, they were more like sisters. We all considered this space our second home. I loved it so much that I wanted to pitch a tent in the lobby.

I don’t see this space anymore. I still dance with the same company. But the building is different. The floors are new and unworn. The lights are both dimmer and brighter, with large logos on the wall. It is huge. And we, the little girls who played family, are all still there. We’re almost grown now. We are not even close friends, but we will always be the “family.”

I walk into class. The room is dark. Music is blasting; the room nearly shakes. The mirrors fog, and I can hardly see myself. The choreographer stands at the front of the room and dances. We used to learn through verbal instructions, but now the language is movement. We study each shape and transition, absorbing every detail. Near the end of class, we observe the unique qualities each dancer brings to the combo and celebrate artistry through emotion and athleticism. The tone is serious. There is no longer fairy glitter on my wrist. This new studio has watched me grow into an advanced dancer, but a piece of me will forever be at that old, charming studio.

I don’t want to pitch a tent in this space, but there is a tent. It’s a drawing. On the walls of the new studio, underneath the paint. I think about it from time to time.