Newfound Passion

I will never forget the first time I started crying in a high school class. I had opened up my email to find a particularly harsh (in my opinion) message from my modelling agent. She told me that the reason I had been cut from a runway show was because I wasn’t graceful or open minded enough. Although she told me this only to help me, I took it very personally, and I immediately started crying. Her solution: dance. This email led to my signing up for a dance class, in downtown Vancouver. This would begin one of the most amazing and eye opening experiences of my life.

As a kid, I never liked dancing. Six-year-old me threw temper tantrums when I was forced into ballet. Nine-year-old me hated going to my sister’s dance recitals. Yet, there I was, 16 year old me, standing in the middle of a third floor Granville street dance studio asking where I could sign up. Contemporary jazz was my agent’s suggestion. Ten years of hating dance and a 40 minute sky train ride had all led to this. The scent of perseverance and strength whirled around me. Men and women of all ages rushed around me from class to class.

Thoughts swirled around my brain like a hurricane as I spoke the to receptionist. What will the instructor be like? Will she help me through the moves? Am I dressed right? That girl’s wearing shorts. Should I be wearing shorts?

My first impression of the class was that it was small. A large, open area only populated with seven or eight people, looked empty against large windows overlooking Granville Street. Naturally, I stood at the back, despising the large mirror that allowed my fellow dancers to watch my every move. During warm up, which consisted of a number of stretches and ab workouts, I stared straight at the teacher, mimicking everything she did. The other dancers knew the warmup by heart, whereas I botched the simplest tasks, hoping to pick up some of what I was learning. Blending into the background, I prayed the instructor wouldn’t call on me. Of course, she did.

Spinning around, she said, “Hi there, I’m Laura. Are you new to dancing?” She walked as she spoke, gracefully weaving between dancers to come over and shake my hand.

“Yes,” I replied, “this is my first time.” Stumbling over my words, I added, “I’m Megan, by the way.”

“Welcome Megan, I hope you enjoy our class.” Gesturing to the room, I could see eyes studying me. Turning on her toe, Laura walked back to the front of the studio.

“Today,” she announced, “we will be learning the choreo to a song called Confident, by Demi Lovato. I hope you all enjoy it.” As we followed along, I struggled to remember arm movements and positions on the floor. I forgot combos and often wound up stepping back and rejoining the class when I remembered the steps. Nevertheless, I enjoyed every moment of the class. I felt one with the music that guided my feet and pull me across the floor. I felt the whirl of every pirouette take me places I never knew existed. I felt myself fall in love with the music and grace that is contemporary jazz.

Taking this class empowered me to embrace my movement. I feel strong when I dance, even if it is just a beginner class. Ten years of despising dance led to an eventual love for it. Dance is exercise, but more importantly it is art. If I hadn’t tried dance, I never would’ve found this amazing new love of mine.