A Lonely Dance in the Busy World

I practiced ballet during my elementary school years. Due to my relatively good performance at my school, I was recommended to join a class with other talented kids from the same ballet group. This class had fewer than twenty students.

In my last year in that class, the teacher recommended that I take a Level 4 exam. She said my level was above average in the class, but I knew I was among the least skilled, which was somewhat strange. Still, my mom encouraged me to give it a try.

One night, the teacher sent me a video of the new dance sequence to practice at home since I had missed the class. However, the dance was incredibly difficult, and even now, I remember it: you had to move in circles while walking along a diagonal line. I arrived home around 7 or 8 PM and had no time to practice it properly, thinking the teacher would understand.

But the next day, the teacher acted as though she had completely forgotten that I hadn't learned the dance. I tried to follow along but ended up with awkward, twisted movements and nearly fell.

The teacher stopped the music and asked me why I was dancing like that. I stammered, trying to explain, and she said, "Didn't I send you the video? Didn't you practice at home?"

Later, she taught me the dance again, but I was too nervous to absorb it at the time. The teacher grew impatient and handed me over to a classmate who was a year or two younger to continue teaching me.

During that period, I cried every night, throwing tantrums all over the house, saying I didn't want to go to class anymore. Yet, I would still wake up at 5 AM the next day to practice, not knowing what stubbornness was driving me.

But no matter how hard I practiced at home, it was futile if I couldn't learn properly in the classroom.

I wasn't a smart child, at least not when it came to dancing.

In the last few days of the class, the teacher simply acted as if I didn't exist. Looking back, I found it somewhat relieving. I went home and happily told my mom that the teacher had stopped scolding me.

However, it was genuinely awkward during classes. One time, she had the students pair up, and after they finished dancing, she kept correcting the moves of the student next to me. Admittedly, I also made mistakes in those particular moves, but she didn't say a word to me.

Then she said, "Let's do it again." I could tell this instruction wasn't meant for me. I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do, while my partner continued the dance steps. I just moved my body, not really dancing.

On the night before the exam, the teacher told me not to come the next day. She said if I were there, it would tarnish her performance record significantly.

I wasn't sad about it; I actually felt relieved. I had long lost the desire to take the exam. In retrospect, I realized I had been somewhat misled into preparing for it, as I hadn't really wanted to quit due to my stubbornness in not giving up too easily.

Back at home, I happily shared the teacher's words with my mom. A few days later, I stumbled upon my mom texting the teacher. Her tone was calm, and she essentially said the teacher hadn't fulfilled her responsibilities. She mentioned that I had at least tried to practice.

Seeing me, my mom hugged me. It wasn't until I was in her arms that I truly felt wronged, and my tears seemed to flow faster than my thoughts.

In hindsight, I've asked myself repeatedly, why did I persist for so many years? In my initial class, I was indeed the best. Even in the new environment, I might not have been as bad as I perceived myself. Even though the teacher didn't seem to like me, her quarterly evaluations of my progress were objective.

Back then, I didn't think this way because I had fallen into the trap of self-doubt. But I always held onto a glimmer of hope, hoping I could achieve it, until the moment I had to move in circles along a diagonal line, and that's when I finally woke up.

Story from Grace