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Mom regarded my sister with an affectionate gaze, likely taking in the sight of her new pink leotard, her hair styled into a petite bun with a matching pink hairband adding the final touch.
Images of my younger self, clad in a similar outfit, lingered in the dusty corners of our family album.While I had no distinct recollection of my own time at the dance academy, there was proof I had once tried to follow in my mother’s footsteps.
I did, but I also failed.
That part was public knowledge, as Mom always told the same thing to those who asked why I wasn’t dancing like my sister, “She lacks the grace of a ballerina.It would be a waste of time and space to have her keep taking classes when I know she’ll fail.”Her words were always matter of fact, as if she was merely stating a universally acknowledged truth.
But each time I heard it, the underlying message was loud and clear: I would never be enough.She would never love me the way she loved my sister.
There was always an invisible pressure to be better, become someone, and do what was needed to make my parents proud.I admired my sister, but alongside that admiration grew a seed of resentment.A resentment that fueled several hasty decisions I regret.
As the morning unfolded that day, a bittersweet mix of emotions filled the air.There was the joy of witnessing my sister embark on her ballet journey, but also the familiar ache of our father’s departure for yet another long trip.Together, we loaded up the family minivan, even making room for our beloved Old English Sheepdog, Freya, in the back.
Once everything was ready, I settled into my seat, positioned next to my sister’s car seat.She tightly clutched her ballerina doll, a gift from Grandma to celebrate her first day at the arts academy.
To this day, I wonder if the dream of becoming a ballerina was inherited from our grandmother.Did she harbor aspirations of being a graceful swan, leading our mother to channel those dreams into my little sister?
If that were the case, it would fall into generational trauma.And if so, I, too, carried the weight of trauma within the depths of my being.
At the tender age of eight, teetering on the precipice of self-discovery, my love for ballet bloomed, but it was a love born more from my profound admiration for my mother and an unyielding desire to earn her pride and love.
I yearned to slip into my sister’s ballet shoes, to feel the adoration and pride in our mother’s eyes directed solely at me.I longed to dance, twirl, leap, and pirouette under the spotlight, just as my mother had done in her prime.
Though I knew she wouldn’t let me do it.I wasn’t made to dance.That particular summer I was sent to a different kind of summer camp, far removed from the world of ballet.
The car ride felt strangely silent.My emotions swirled within me like a tempest, contrasting the serene scenery around us.As we drove past the wooded area, I wished I was camping with Dad.It was one of his favorite things.He often took us along.At that moment, a thought took hold in my mind.
If I wasn’t destined to follow in my mother’s footsteps, perhaps I would find my own stage to shine upon, my own spotlight under the protective wing of my father.I yearned to be his source of joy and pride.
One day, I would fly away like him, be important and make him proud.I would write a different story.
Of course, I had no idea it would be one of the things that would ruin our family.
ChapterFourteen
“There is a time in the last few days of summer when the ripeness of autumn fills the air, and the breath of the moon is more than a whisper.It’s something like the way love feels before it’s real—something like the sadness of arriving at the end of childhood.”—Frederick Buechner
In our family’s story,my sister Evelyn was known as the “little ballerina.”From the moment she took her first steps, she danced with a natural grace that seemed in tune with the music’s rhythm.At the tender age of three, her tiny feet and delicate body moved with uncanny elegance.
Our mother proudly declared her a prodigy.The ballet teacher confirmed this sentiment, solidifying Evelyn’s destiny.
Mom became completely absorbed, consumed by the potential of Evelyn’s ballet career.She had never received such praise at that age, so she believed Evelyn would surpass her achievements, if only she pushed her just enough.
Obsessed by her plan and grandiose dreams for my sister’s future, she convinced my hesitant father to sell our home in the suburbs and move to the heart of Seattle to a very expensive but spacious four-bedroom home.
Dad adored Mom, and her happiness was his top priority.He reluctantly agreed to the move, knowing it would make her happy.One of the rooms in our new home was transformed into a ballet studio with mirrored walls, polished wooden floors, and mounted ballet barres.The space was dedicated to nurturing Evelyn’s talent.
Mom sidelined me.I was overshadowed by my little sister’s talent.I observed as Mom and Evelyn disappeared into the studio for hours, their practice sessions filling the house with classical melodies.Mom’s instructions like “plié, relevé, arabesque” interrupted the music often.Her voice was loud and rigorous.
When Evie wasn’t practicing, Mom would say, “Chin up, shoulders back, walk gracefully as if you’re a fairy dancing on top of the clouds.”
The ballet studio held its own secrets.Mom never revealed to the teachers or our father that Evelyn was putting in extra hours at home, tirelessly striving for perfection.
As I write these words, I realize that at the tender age of three, Evelyn was robbed of her childhood.Her time was consumed by an unending pursuit to emulate the grace of Anna Pavlova, the elegance of Margot Fonteyn, or the precision of Alicia Alonso.
Her daily schedule, which would be overwhelming even for an adult, consumed her life.Evelyn would attend preschool, followed by one-on-one sessions at the academy, and then come home to continue her practice.When I returned from school, she would already be deeply engrossed in her dancing.
Our family trips, which used to happen often, came to a halt.No more camping trips to the mountains.No expeditions to foreign countries or visits to our friends and family.
