What drew me to dance was seeing my older sister onstage. I loved music and putting on shows at our house, but seeing her perform in costume with people watching (other than our mom) made it feel like the stage itself was calling to me. It was the performance aspect of dance that kept me coming back in my early years of training. Every time I was onstage, I felt a thrill, a sense of being present in the moment­ with the music. I could forget everything I’d learned for the performance (sometimes I actually did), and I would leave elated to have been up there dancing. 

Then, when I was 12, my father died. I turned to dance and my training, unknowingly, to help me cope and focus on things other than what I was going through. I found that movement and music centered me in a way that I had previously thought was tied only to performance. Dance helped me process emotions that were too large for me to put into words, gave me a group of friends and mentors, and allowed me to be somebody else at times when I felt heavy in my own shoes. I grew to not only need the performance but also the repetition and practice in the studio, the community, the creation of something new, and the release of the emotions that happens during long hours spent pushing your body to its limit. 

Now, in my 30s, dance has shaped the woman and artist I am today. It has held my hand through deep grief and helped me put that pain into something onstage. It continues to help me process emotions in my own way. It led me to a more fulfilling career than I could have ever imagined as a kid, pushing the boundaries of what I thought I was capable of as an artist and giving me the opportunity and courage to expand my stagecraft. It has brought me a community of people who care deeply, and who have changed the course of my life with their guidance and friendship. And it has given me the ability to do exactly what I felt called to do as a kid: to be perfectly present in the moment, with the music, in front of an audience.