Editor’s Note: The following essay is one of five winning submissions selected for the 2025 Showstopper Day Essay Contest. In this unique take personal essay, Ella Hootman responds to the prompt “What is one aspect of being a dancer that most people don’t understand?” by looking at her dance experiences through the smell. Ella’s essay reminds us that so much is remembered in small details.
Most people think being a dancer is about what happens on stage, the costumes, the stage lights, and the applause. But they don’t know what really makes a dancer, what stays with us long after the music stops.
They don’t know the smell of the studio.
It’s not a sweet smell. It’s sweat and rosin, and rubber flooring. It’s the scent of hairspray, tired legs, and hours of hard work. It’s a scent that lingers in the air long after class is over, and to me, it smells like home.
That smell has been there for every version of me. The little girl sitting crisscross on the floor, trying to stretch like the older girls. The teenager learning to stop doubting herself. The girl whose body needs weekly infusions to keep going, but who walks into class anyway because the studio reminds her she still can. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone in my struggle, that no matter how much pain I feel or how tired I get, I can always find my way back to that room. That I am a part of something much bigger than myself.
It smells like showing up, even when you’re scared or hurting. Like pushing through the hard days and chasing something bigger than yourself. I’ve cried in that space. I’ve laughed until my stomach hurt. I’ve failed, fixed it, and finally gotten it right. The studio is where I learned to be brave. It’s where I discovered that dance is about more than just moving your body. It’s about moving through life with resilience, strength, and heart.
I remember days when the pain would make it hard to stand. There were times I wondered if I could keep going, if it would ever be worth it. But the smell of that studio always pulled me back. Every time I walked in, I remembered why I was there. I remembered that I had a passion for this art form, something deep inside that couldn’t be ignored.
People will never fully understand that the real work of being a dancer doesn’t happen on stage. It happens in the moments between counts. In the deep breaths before the music starts. In the hours spent at the barre, or stretching, or making your body do things it doesn’t want to do. The real work is in the small decisions, the ones you make every day to keep going. The choice to get back up after a fall, the courage to keep pushing after failure, the trust you build in yourself and your body. That’s where dancers are truly made. And it’s in the studio that this magic happens.
And I want to be the kind of dancer who gives that to someone else. I want to show the next generation that dance isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present. It’s about showing up for yourself and the people next to you. It’s about giving everything to something you love, even when it hurts, even when it’s difficult. It’s about learning to be comfortable with imperfection and finding beauty in every movement.
The smell of the studio may not matter to most people. But to me, it means so much more. It means I’m becoming someone stronger, kinder, and more fearless every time I walk in the door. It means I’m part of something larger than myself, something that connects all dancers. It’s in that space, under those bright lights, that I truly feel alive.
The smell of the studio is the smell of my strength. And every time I breathe it in, I remember why I dance.
