By Lauren Zelt

WASHINGTON- She peers beneath her pristine white tutu, down at her feet, and examines meticulously tied ribbons, blushing pink from the soft glow of the stage lights.  The shadows of the dancers on stage pirouette simultaneously on the backstage wall behind her.  Eyes closed, she silently reviews her choreography, making subtle movements, mere outlines of the steps she will take on the stage.  She casts off a tattered, purple legwarmer.  Today it warms her stubborn right calf.  A final glance in the mirror attached to the wing shows a stray hair rebelling from her pristine ballet bun.  One more bobby pin and a spritz of White Rain; she leaps on to stage.  Just another day at the office.

This was my life, once.  It was every little girl’s dream, to grow up and be a ballerina.  And it was mine, if only for a mere moment. 

At age 10 I knew, though looking back it seems trite.  A 10-year-old can do little more than flit happily around the stage.  But during curtain call, a single tear escaped its duct and traced my cheek.  A tear of joy, an emotion so adult in nature, rarely experienced in childhood.  During this performance, I realized what I was born to do.  From then on I worked for nothing more.

In my teens I often spent six hours a day or more in the ballet studio.  Blisters on my feet, pain in my back, occasional longing for a normal adolescence.  The gift of art- it’s a double-edged sword.  You bring beauty to the world, you sacrifice yourself.  “Swan Lake” during my senior prom.  Balanchine’s “Brahms Schoenberg Quartet” during my high school graduation.  It was worth it.  A distinguished mentor affirmed what my 10-year-old self already knew.  “You were born to dance.”   

A split second and a torn ACL ended my four-year stint in the pros with Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre and Pacific Northwest Ballet.  March 17, 2006.  A petite jumping combination in morning ballet class.  I landed- my knee to the left, foot to the right.  Rushed to the doctor, a hurried MRI.  “You’ll need surgery,” they said.  The 10-year-old began to cry.  She knew when it began.  She knew it was over.

Later that year, struggling through physical therapy treatment, they told me my recovery wasn’t what they hoped.  Five percent of patients don’t recover fully.  “I’m sorry, but you are in that group.”

My story is not uncommon; many ballet dancers and professional athletes see a lifetime of hard work vanish before their eyes.  It brings the chance for a new career, the search for a new identity.

“I had always defined myself as a dancer, it was hard to suddenly not be a dancer anymore, and have to find my identity in other ways,” fellow dancer Cindy Heidelberg said.  We danced together at PNB before she entered academia- first at University of Washington, then at Georgetown University Law School.  “From the time I can remember, I was solely focused on becoming a ballet dancer, and never questioned that focus,” she told me.  The identity question is immediate, lingers for years.  The world knew me as the ballerina.  Who am I, now that she’s gone? 

While dancing at PBT, I attended night courses at the University of Pittsburgh.  I tried being a full-time student there.  The pain of living in a city where the ghost of dancer past pursued me, overcame me.  I moved on to Georgetown University.  New school, new city, new identity.

It may seem as though a swan corps leaps, breathes as one when onstage.  When it comes time for a swansong, each dancer moves into her own new life differently.  A recent study by Dr. Linda Hamilton found that 79% of dancers who enrolled in a college program at Fordham University found it difficult to declare a major.  Some dancers choose a new career related to dance, like my friend Aimee DiAndrea, a former member of the Graduate Program at PBT and current University of Pittsburgh student.  “I'm currently working as in intern with PBT in their marketing department, which I couldn't love more.  I get to be surrounded my dance and I get to appreciate the art without associating jealousy or negativity towards it,” she says.  I am jealous of Aimee’s transition.  I cannot go near a ballet performance without welling up. 

I’m looking ahead, towards a career in journalism.  Overcome with passion I am not, but it stimulates my mind, and soon it will pay the bills.  Myself and other dancers are faced with what a New York Times article called, “the sober recognition that, at least momentarily, a dancer might need to stop expecting a new line of work to match the deep fulfillment of professional dance.” 

Transitioning from a ballet career into a second life is not only difficult for me, but for my family and friends as well.  When sitting down to write this article, I realized I had never asked my mother with whom I am close, what it was like for her.  “It was frightening because the transition was not one of choice.  Parents are supposed to have answers for the bumps in the road of life and I did not feel like I had much wisdom to offer.  Seeing you become so fragile, vulnerable and scared was heartbreaking and there was no band-aid,” she confided. 

There is some good.  I can finally end my life-long obsession with losing weight.  I can look in the mirror and like what I see, though my body image demons still haunt, torment.  It’s the same for many of my former dancer friends.  “I can eat what I want now and not have to worry about being in a leotard and tights in front of a mirror from 8am-6pm,” DiAndrea said.  “I am healthy and not thinking about food and weight gain 24/7.” 

With the freedom comes the harsh reality we are no longer lean and lithe like we were back then.  “When I was dancing eight hours per day I was in great shape, and it was, and continues to be, a hard realization that my body will never look like it did when I was dancing,” Cindy told me. 

It feels good to try to allow myself to be happy again.  To have goals, dreams, semblance of a new life.  “It has been wonderful to see you excited about your accomplishments again and see that you will become committed to a new life venue,” my mother said. 

It’s been more than two years since I last tied the ribbons on my pointe shoes.  They’re hidden away in a box somewhere.  The sight overcomes me.  I don’t hide what I learned while I danced in them.  Never give up.  Diligent work breeds bountiful beauty.  I will realize new greatness, share its story with the world once again.