Editor’s Note: The following essay is one of five winning submissions selected for the 2025 Showstopper Day Essay Contest. Responding to the prompt “How has dance shaped your confidence or sense of self?” Xiangting Ren takes us through years of dance dreams in this detailed essay about success and the many emotions that come with the journey from first tentative steps to powerful moments in the spotlight.
I used to press my face up against the TV screen, eyes wide, hands mimicking the graceful port de bras of ballerinas spinning across the stage. I didn’t know what a plié was or that those dancers rehearsed for hours to achieve that kind of beauty. All I knew was that something about the way they moved felt like magic, like freedom. I wanted to be part of it.
That spark from the screen turned into a flame. I started dancing, first in socks on the kitchen floor, then at a local studio, and eventually under real stage lights. Over time, I found my voice not through words but through movement. While others raised their hands in class, I spoke in arabesques and jetés. Dance wasn’t just something I did; it was the way I existed in the world.
But everything changed during my sophomore year.
It happened during a rehearsal, an awkward fall, a sharp pain, and then a diagnosis I didn’t quite understand: a broken floating rib. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office, fingers clenched around the edge of the seat, as I heard the words “No backbends. No overstretching. Limit your upper body movement.” I nodded, but inside, I crumbled.
My back flexibility was my signature, my ribbon in the wind. Without it, I felt like a song missing its chorus.
That competition season, I pushed myself anyway, trying to dance like I used to, stubbornly reaching for something that was no longer mine to hold. My solo was shaky. I was constantly afraid—afraid of pain, of judgment, of not being good enough anymore. The judges saw it too. My scores dropped. My confidence plummeted. For the first time in years, I questioned if I even belonged in the dance world I had once dreamed of entering.
But somewhere between disappointment and determination, I found something more important than flexibility: resilience.
Junior year, I tried something new, something terrifying. I choreographed my own solo.
It started in a quiet garage, just me and the concrete wall with a slim rectangular mirror. I stared at myself, not the girl I used to be, but the dancer I was now: wiser, wounded, but still burning with passion. I began building movement around what I could do. I focused on footwork, turns, emotion. I crafted each phrase to highlight the power in my limbs, the strength in my core, the grace in my breath. For the first time, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, I was trying to understand myself.
That solo became more than a routine. It was a conversation with every part of me that had once felt broken. When I stepped on stage, I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t hiding. I was free—maybe not in the same way I used to be, but in a way that felt even more true.
And the judges noticed. So did the teachers, my teammates, even strangers. But most importantly, I did.
Dance taught me to listen: to my body, to my heart, to the subtle shifts between strength and softness. It taught me that confidence isn’t about being the best in the room. It’s about knowing who you are, even when things go wrong; especially when things go wrong.
Now, when I see younger dancers struggle with their own setbacks: an injury, a missed step, a moment of doubt, I don’t tell them to push through. I tell them to pause. To breathe. To find their story, not someone else’s.
Because sometimes, the most powerful solos are born not from perfection, but from perseverance.
And while my back may never bend the way it once did, my spirit? That bends, grows, and stretches wider than ever.
I still think about the girl who once danced in front of the television, trying to copy what she saw. She didn’t know then that real dance isn’t just what happens under stage lights. It’s what happens when you fall and rise again. When you rediscover yourself—not in spite of the limits, but through them.
And that’s what makes me a dancer.
