The Little Dancer

When I was three years old, I wanted to be a ballerina more than anything else in the world. I was undeterred by the fact that my legs didn’t work the way that they were supposed to; it didn’t bother me that I could hardly stand in one place without toppling over, much less twirl and execute movements with grace. I watched ballet videos for hours while sporting a frilly pink tutu, mesmerized, and imagined myself someday performing perfect pirouettes in front of an adoring audience.

Me in my ballet outfit, age four :-)

At age four, I took ballet lessons alongside my friends and was determined to keep up with the class. I wasn't graceful by any stretch of the imagination, and I couldn't perform all of the moves, but I loved everything about ballet. I felt like the prettiest girl in the world with my tights, slippers, and leotard, and sometimes, to my delight, my mom would put my hair up in a bun for class. There I was, a petite four-year old with stiff, crooked legs and a dream that defied my cerebral palsy.

I don't remember exactly when that dream faded away, but at some point I decided that I'd rather be a writer than a ballerina. And so it began; I discovered that I loved words even more than I loved ballet.

I was still a dancer, but now, instead of putting on my slippers and dancing with my feet, I picked up a pencil and danced with my words.