You Only Live Once, This Is How I’m Doing It!

Tag: dance

32 Weeks

32 weeks belly

32 รท 4 = 8

Eight months pregnant you guys!

It’s kind of blowing my mind that I hit eight months today. I mean, I’m 8 weeks from my due date. I guess 8 is my lucky number this week.

I had another check up yesterday and everything looks great. Baby boy is finally head down again which means I don’t feel like he’s trying to headbutt his way through my side anymore. Of course I am ridiculous and was a bit worried that, even though I was feeling him just as much, I wasn’t feeling him as strongly. So, ya know, my brain instantly goes to oh em gee what if that means something is wrong?! My midwife said he switched positions though and that’s likely why I’m not feeling him as strongly. Then naturally last night he was back to trying to kick his way out, only this time his escape plan was my ribs. I’m such a silly pregnant lady sometimes.

I’ve still been dancing at least twice a week. We’re currently rehearsing for a performance in about a month and while I’ve been planning on performing I thought I better ask just to be safe. When I asked my midwife when I should plan on stopping dance her answer was my favorite thing ever. “When you’re crowning.” Well okay then. So if you want to see a nine months pregnant lady performing in a hip hop version of Alice in Wonderland let me know and I’ll get you the details.

This coming weekend we’re going to get maternity photos taken. It’s a birthday present from my mom and I’m incredibly excited to see how they turn out. I’m not sure if we’ll have them by next week but as soon as we get them I’ll be sure to post.

Short update this week. I think it’s mostly because I’m in shock over being eight freaking months pregnant. Eight.


Holding onto the happiness

Tonight was a beautiful night.

I missed four dance classes while I was in hiding so I am taking a jazz class right before my company class for the next four weeks to make up for it. That means two hours of dance in a row. After two weeks of doing almost nothing but lie around my muscles were nervous.

It was positively blissful.

I worked hard and sweated like crazy and my body is pretty sore already. The thing is, I laughed so much I’m not sure if my sore abs are from the dancing or the giggling. It was just that much fun. I’ve been taking lessons there since October and this whole ordeal made me realize that in that time I made friends. Not just other students who take classes with me, but friends.

Tonight I received more hugs and words of sympathy but in a way more importantly I had fun. I laughed. A lot. It felt so good.

I’m not over it. I’m starting to realize that getting over it is probably an unrealistic goal. From what I’ve been told no one really “gets over” a miscarriage. It’s a part of me forever whether I like it or not. That was such a depressing, overwhelming thought before.

Tonight I realized that even if I’m never over it I can still find myself again. I will laugh and have happiness. My future doesn’t have to be dark.

I’m holding onto that feeling. Happiness is worth holding onto.

Dreams in a box

In the bottom of this box are dreams disguised as dance shoes and clothes. The shoes are loving worn out. Not quite with holes, just worn spots and discoloration where my toes used to rub the floor the most. They’re still good, I could still wear them. But I don’t. I don’t dance anymore.

There’s nothing in the world that makes me feel more alive than dancing. It’s the way my soul speaks. When I hear a song it’s rare that I’m not dancing to it. Only now I usually only dance in my head.

When I was younger I was a dancer. I danced all styles of dance but I wanted nothing more than to dance on pointe shoes. I took classes several days a week. When I wasn’t in class I was practicing for class. As a little girl my favorite places were the aisles of the grocery store. They were the best for practing spotting as I twirled. My mom didn’t seem to mind. At least she never stopped me. My mom was wonderful like that.

My dance teachers were some of my favorite people in the world. They were beautiful and when they danced it was like magic. They didn’t just perform steps, they sparkled. Dances weren’t just a series of steps put together, they were their feelings set to music.

One day the head of the studio called me into her office. I don’t remember why. I do remember her asking me what my goals were. Among other things I mentioned how much I wanted to dance en pointe. I don’t remember anything else she said in that meeting except for one thing. “You don’t have the feet for it.” Everything else is a blur. I don’t remember if I cried then. I don’t think I did. I don’t think I said much else at all. All I remember are those words and feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach. I don’t have the feet for it. Just like that.

I didn’t stop dancing then. It was several years before I stopped altogether. But a little part of me died that day. That dream was snatched right from under my nose by cruel genetics. To this day I cry if I see ballerinas dancing en pointe. Why did that have to be my dream when I wasn’t made able to do it? Cruel.

There are so many reasons that my dance dreams lie in the bottom of a box. Money, time and age are all factors. But packing up things to be put into storage I’m reminded of that moment. The moment one of my dreams died. I’m also reminded that I don’t dance anymore.

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