Dear Dance,

First, I'd like to apologize. I don't know where to begin. You've stuck with me since the very start, yet I'm leaving you now. Shall we take a trip down memory lane?

I'm three years old, and my mom has signed me up for a tap class. You groan because you know that three year olds can't even find the beat of the music, let alone tap to it. You let me stomp around on all the wrong counts anyway. You let me have fun. You piqued my interest and planted a seed in my heart.

I'm five years old, and my grandpa is taking me to a dance class in China. It's a little ways away from where we live, so we have to get there by bike. My grandpa lugs me around on the backseat of his bike; I am anxiously clinging to the metal wires of the seat. My heart races faster than the bike gears are turning, and I let out my breath little by little. We pass a sunflower field, and I remember imagining myself dancing among the tall stalks.

I was ecstatic after that Chinese dance class. In a frenzy of excitement, I had bought two leotards (one red and one blue) and one pair of black tights. By now, I was falling almost madly in love with you. That seed you had sown was sprouting, pushing away the dirt with its green stem.

I'm seven years old, and my mom tells me about a new opportunity to dance. The Chinese community is asking for children to dance at the annual Chinese New Year Festival. There are all sorts of traditional Chinese dance styles. I pick a few of my favorites and hop on board. I see that you are universal; I see that you are ubiquitous. The little sprout in my heart had grown a few leaves.

I'm nine years old, and my mom picks me up from school early one day. I was still playing with my friend on the jungle gym, reluctant to go wherever my mom was taking me. It wasn't until I got in the car that she told me she had seen trial ballet classes downtown. Ballet?! I thought. I don't know how to do ballet! We drove down to the Grand Rapids Ballet Company School, and I nervously walked in.

Timidness pulsing through my veins, I put on a pink leotard and skirt. My hair was pieced together in a hurried bun, and my bangs still rested on my forehead. I made my way into the back corner of the studio, to the very edge of the bar. I had no idea how this class would turn out. I reassured myself that this was only a trial class; if it went horribly, I didn't have to come back.

I loved the class so much that I paid the full year's tuition that night.

I'm ten years old and getting ready for my first show of The Nutcracker. I had not known how quickly that flower in my heart had been growing; in the year since I had started ballet, I could feel the flower buds turning into blossoms.

I was a little soldier in The Nutcracker. Some of my friends were little mice. Some were little angels. In retrospect, we were merely a herd of children leaping around on stage. At the time, though, I felt invincible. I felt larger than life. I felt on top of the world.

I'm almost twelve years old, and my dad encouraged me to switch to Michigan Ballet Academy. I had done a summer intensive program there, and I loved every minute of it. I was exposed to new styles of dance. I had done contemporary at GRB, but now I had modern, jazz, tap, character. I even enjoyed the pilates classes. I could feel myself improving, becoming stronger, gaining cleaner technique.

At the end of that summer, I went en pointe. It felt monumental in my dance career.

I flourished at this new studio. The flower you had planted in me was in full bloom.

I'm thirteen years old, and I did not sign up for ballet in the fall. I had tried out for the school dance team that spring, but I didn't make it. That inspired me to branch out with my styles of dance; I felt that I had been too focused on ballet dancing. I enrolled at a new studio for the first semester: Academy of Dance Arts. I did ballet and pointe classes there, but I also signed up for lyrical and a hip-hop-esque class. I felt enlightened to the many forms of art.

I'm fourteen years old, and I miss ballet. I miss ballet so much. You exposed me to so many styles of yourself; you showed me so many of your identities, yet I still longed for the traditional ballet form. I missed the long hours every weeknight dedicated to barré and variations. I missed the even longer hours every weekend spent at rehearsal. I missed the eternity of ballet performances on stage that somehow turned into a fraction of a second by the time the curtains went down.

I came back to Michigan Ballet Academy.

I'm fifteen years old, and I took another risk in the world you control. I tried competitive dancing at Dance Creations. You may laugh at me for switching studios so often, but it's you who made me hunger for new experiences. You showed me the possibilities of this world of dance, and my love for you drove me to reach out. The flower you planted had endured thunderstorms and tornados, yet it was still rooted firmly in my heart.

That year, I had chosen to compete in lyrical, jazz, and hip-hop. I still remember my first hip-hop class. I felt awkward and out of place, my ballet limbs fitting like the wrong puzzle piece. I soon lost that feeling as my groove melted into the mold and I grew to love it.

I had performed on stage before, but competing was a new experience. I didn't know how to describe the breathlessness after each competition. The flutter in my heart, the smile unable to leave my face, the gut feeling that I had picked the right thing. The flower you put in me was so adamantly here to stay.

I'm sixteen years old, and I'm here to say goodbye to you. This past year has taught me more about myself than I had ever known, and I think that it's time we part ways. I enjoyed this past year of dancing, but I could not find the feeling of certainty that I had once thought was mine to keep. I still love you and all your personalities, but it's time the flower in my heart got some rest.

I want to thank you for the things you've taught me. I want to thank you for the lifelong friends you've given me. I want to thank you for the experiences you've provided for me.

I will never forget the little things. Quick changes backstage. Staying late nights in theaters. Even later nights at rehearsal. Blisters on my feet. Breaking in new pointe shows. Bobby-pinning down my wispies and spraying my head until all I could smell was crisp hair. An eternity-long supply of hairnets littered with holes.

This might not even be the end. I don't know what's to come next. For all we know, I could come running back into your open arms in a month. I could realize this was a mistake. I could beg you to show me a new path of dance. A flower doesn't have to be in full bloom for its roots to run and remain deep.

For now, though, this is a goodbye. This is a see-you-later. This is a hoping that our paths will cross again.

All the love,

Irene