Like most young girls all over the world, I started off in ballet. When I came to realise it wasn't all tutu's and twirling, I moved onto commercial. Quite the drastic switch, I know. My best friend and I went to the same club and thought we were the coolest people alive. Looking back, I can't help but cringe at myself, but it also makes me weirdly nostalgic. It reminds me of a time when being weird wasn't coupled with a fear of being judged. For reasons I can't remember, I decided to give up that too. I guess sometimes we really just move on and that's all there is to it.
After taking time away from dance and exploring other after-school activities, I slowly made my return back to my beloved sport when I was about 8 or 9. Strictly Come Dancing had been a standard practice of television consumption in my household. There would not be a single weekend where we didn't watch it. Obsession does not even come close to describing how badly enamored I was with this world of glamour and grace. Even back then, I knew the likelihood of becoming famous and getting asked to compete on Strictly were slim. So, I chose the other avenue.
Ballroom dancing. Those two words were going to define the rest of my formative childhood years.
"But I saw my future and it was bright - I was going to dance and it would be my entire personality."
I still remember my very first lesson exactly. You'd have never seen someone more excited to learn the first few basic steps of the waltz. But I saw my future and it was bright - I was going to dance and it would be my entire personality.
Every Wednesday evening from that moment on, I had dance lessons. The highlight of my week. Waltz, Tango, Jive, Quickstep, Foxtrot... You name it, I spent hours practicing the steps to each and every one. To begin with, learning the sacred art of ballroom and Latin dance was nothing more than a hobby. An escape from school that killed time. Slowly, but surely, it started to get more serious.
I started entering competitions. I got my first pair of ballroom shoes - little silver heels with a slinky strap. They had me convinced I would be the next Ginger Rogers. I had a red dress with lacy sleeves, specifically meant for Latin dances. My mum would slick back my hair into a bun (so tight it would give me headaches) and I plastered on a smile with every heel lead I took. My weekends consisted of waking up at the crack of dawn, my poor parents driving me up and down the country, and praying I was good enough for a plastic trophy.
"Somewhere along the line, and I can't pinpoint it exactly, my relationship with dance changed."
Somewhere along the line, and I can't pinpoint it exactly, my relationship with dance changed. However, a key moment on this journey was definitely Blackpool. For those that don't know, Blackpool is essentially the birthplace of ballroom dancing. It's sacred. After a grueling weekend of competing in the illustrious Winter Gardens, I came home with nothing. What had been an exciting, unique experience was now tainted with the shame of failure.
As I fell back into the familiar routine of lessons, now occurring twice a week, something inside me snapped. Dance became an intense arena of comparison. The harsh comments from my coaches still live inside my head now. The very inflection of their voices tattooed on my brain. "You give up far too easily, Ella", one said. Every minute of the day was spent thinking about dance and yet I was told I wasn't even trying.
My heart wasn't in it for a long time, yet I kept dancing on empty. It reached a point where I was defining my whole self-worth by the medals and trophies lining my bedroom shelves. If I wasn't winning, I was losing. And I was losing in more ways than one. Not only was I embarrassed watching my team mates dominate every competition while I watched from the side lines, I also felt immensely guilty. Like any other sport, dance was incredibly expensive. I felt I was wasting everyone's time and money but was too scared to admit it aloud.
Eventually, there came a day where I sat in the car with my mum parked on the driveway sobbing uncontrollably. Every terrible thought I'd had about myself poured out of me like a tidal wave. I felt like I'd let my younger self down entirely. My dreams of dance slipping through my fingers like sand. I realized then that my coaches were wrong. Giving up is never easy. If you expected some big, tragic event to have caused me to fall out of love with dance, then I'm sorry to disappoint. Some dreams just die quietly.
Certain family friends continue to ask me, to this day, if I still dance. While I might still whip out a waltz as my party trick and use the fact that I competed at Blackpool as my go-to fun fact for icebreakers, ballroom dancing isn't something I can ever see myself returning to.
Maybe it wasn't dancing that was magical, maybe the magic was inside me all along.