I’ve been dancing since I could walk and writing since I could speak.
I don’t remember the first time I cut a rug, but I was always told I was moving to the music from the “Little Einsteins” program that constantly played on my TV screen. I still remember the first story I wrote, which I made before I could even write a letter from the alphabet.
I noticed “writing” in my favorite kids’ television shows was merely a series of illustrative scribbles, so I drew squiggly lines on paper and convinced myself I had written a fully formed and legible story.
I sat on the staircase landing in my childhood home and read off a long fable of a princess and prince, equipped with the bells and whistles of fighting dragons and romantic obstacles. Of course, there was nothing decipherable on the page, but I was convinced I had created a modern masterpiece.
For most of my childhood into high school, I wrote and danced consistently and got better at each as I went along. I stole my Dad’s iPad and wrote silly short stories in the Pages app. I was also still dancing at my local studio, usually trying to perfect my tap dancing.
But in high school, I nearly ignored writing as I delved headfirst into dance training at my performing arts school.
The only stories I thought about were the ones I was making with my body, not words. But during my senior year, I wrote my college essay, which I still consider one of my proudest moments.
When I sat down to start it, no ideas came to me because it had been so long since I got to do anything creative with my writing. I spent hours painstakingly looking at a blank document before closing my laptop and walking to the train station.
During the walk, something magical happened. About halfway to the station, the essay popped into my head, fully formed. I held onto as many fragments of the essay as I could, hoping to not forget too much by the time I sat on the train.
I boarded the 4:08 p.m. train home and wrote the entire essay in my Notes app in 20 minutes. It was a free flow of linguistic creativity that made me realize I wanted writing to be my profession, no matter how little pay I may receive from it. From there, I came to Temple to study English and started writing as much as I possibly could.
Even before writing for The Temple News, I buried myself in academic work, trying desperately to take as much creative liberty as possible to make a project I was proud of. I was still dancing in my first year of college, so I felt fulfilled in both artistic passions, but dancing began to take a toll on my body that I couldn’t ignore.
I woke up with hip pain that made it impossible for me to take a few steps without wincing, and I was constantly suffering from torn muscles in my back or arms. I learned quickly that dancing was something I would have to leave behind.
One day, while I was in the throes of this internal conflict about quitting the thing I loved so much, one of my professors saw me sitting on a bench outside Mazur Hall. She walked up to me and said I was meant to dedicate my life to literature and writing.
Without knowing about my troubles, she told me that she wrestled with becoming a professional dancer or an academic but ultimately gave up dancing. The interaction was an extraordinary coincidence, but I’ve carried it ever since.
It helped me realize I chose the right path, but recently I’ve begun to grieve the creativity I’ve left behind with dancing. I hear music the way dancers do, feeling every beat of it – every drum, cymbal, synth hit and lyrical rhythm.
When I listen to music, I can’t help but envision movement to it. When I read poems or novels, the words have a rhythm I can’t ignore, a rhythm anyone can dance to. My brain is constantly buzzing with creativity and it feels like I don’t have an outlet for all of it.
I constantly worry I’m neglecting parts of myself that could be the most successful or fulfilling and that I can’t have two forms of creativity at the same time. When I watch dancers on stage at a live performance or professional dancers online, all I can think of is the life and art I’ve left behind and if there’s even a reason for me to still be holding onto it at all.
Now, dancing is more of a party trick than an art form. I constantly jump into splits to liven up the mood of a room, or bust out in random bits of ballet jump sequences, simply to prove to myself that I still have the skill. I want it to be so much more, but I have gradually come to terms with it not being possible to the extent I always dreamed of.
Learning I had to give up something I’m so passionate about was my first real lesson in growing up, which unfortunately everybody has learned at some point: you can’t do everything you want to.
In my early 20s, my future feels like an abstraction that I can’t make sense of. I see my peers have fully formed plans for their careers post-graduation, and I feel like I’m constantly lagging.
I’ll learn to make peace with my path eventually, but I don’t know how long it will take.
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