I knew what I wanted.
I wanted to dance.
I danced every chance I got.
I dreamed in tutus and tulle, ribbon and releve.
Oh yes, I moved through the world on my toes.
But those girls. They were serious.
Not like the family-friendly studio where I had grown up.
Those girls were a company. In half a dozen classes each week, they bonded. In one class a week, I intruded.
Two classes a week. Still not enough.
And so I dropped. I was out.
I still moved through the world on my toes.
I still dreamed in tutus and tulle.
But that’s all it was. A dream.
I still tried. I stretched. I took classes. Less serious classes. We were adults. With jobs. And families. One class a week was a lot for us all.
But this is not how I expected to dance.
I see the same dreams in her now. The tutu that only comes off when she sleeps. The way she responds to the music as it plays.
She moves through the world on her toes.
Her classes, well they are magical. Stories and costumes. Songs and steps.
But home is where she dances. Where she lets go and just moves. Where fewer eyes are on her and she is just purely and simply herself.
I won’t confuse my dream with hers. Hers will be her own. Classes or no classes. Serious or not. I’ll support her.
But now my dreams are for her.
I dream that she will go after her goals with the determination and tenacity that her goals most definitely deserve.
That her life will always match her expectations.
I dream that she’ll always dance as she wants to dance.
This post was written in response to a prompt: write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted”.
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