When I was 34 years old, at the height of my dancing powers, I quit. I quit the one thing that I loved more than anything else. I quit the one thing to which my entire identity was tied. And I quit because of limitations that were placed on me; and not by the dance industry or society. I quit because of limitations that I placed on myself.

I was relatively successful at auditions; and I worked somewhat regularly: television commercials, music videos, small dance companies, off-Broadway musicals. And although I booked more jobs than most of my friends and colleagues, it didn’t add up to a full time career. And so I worked outside the dance industry. And like most dancers, I struggled. I really struggled.

I was short (a tiny bit over 5’5”). I was old (or so I thought); I could smell 35. I had no Broadway show or major dance company on my résumé. And I had responsibilities (or so I believed) that prevented me from leaving New York City. I saw each of these factors as a limitation that was keeping me from my dream. And as I stared into the future, all I could see was the enormous financial stress under which I was living. And I said to myself “No one will hire you because you are short. No one will hire you because you are old. No one will hire you because you have a weak résumé. No one will hire you because you can’t leave New York”. And since I trained completely in open classes and had no real mentors or guidance, I believed all of it. I simply had no hope.

Well I had gone to college and graduate school. I HAD earning abilities. I had REAL earning abilities. And since I had convinced myself that these self-imposed limitations were going to keep me from my dreams, the logical way to put an end to the crushing financial stress was to simply stop dancing and enter the regular workforce. And that’s what I did; for nearly ten years. And I had a “normal job”. And I had a “normal life”. And I had “happiness”, or so I thought.

Until one day a friend who was visiting New York convinced me to take a dance class with her. I stood in the back of Richard Pierlon’s incredible jazz class at Steps on Broadway, and I did as much as I could. I was well past forty. I hadn’t danced in a decade. I couldn’t do much; in fact I felt as if I had lost everything; well almost everything. The one element that was still very much in tact was the joy that I felt in the process of studying dance. That joy was still burning ferociously in the depths of who I am. And so when the class was over I found myself sobbing in the corner of the studio because I felt as if I had ruined my life. I would never again dance as I did when I was young.

But I could still train. I could still learn. I could still improve. And so I started taking two classes a week; just for me. That quickly grew to five classes a week. Then, one day, Richard Pierlon asked me to sub for him. And so began my teaching career. Little by little I made and cultivated connections. Little by little I got more and more teaching jobs. Little by little I found my way to my beloved Joffrey Ballet School. And I couldn’t be happier. And I can see flashes of my training in my students. And I get to share in their joyous successes as they move on to their careers. And I get to support them and guide them when they get cut at the audition time and time again (a feeling I know only too well). And I get to believe in them when they simply have no hope.

This past week my phone rang. The caller ID said “Los Angeles”. I don’t know anyone in Los Angeles so I let it go to voicemail. Later that day I listened to the message. It was from The Telsey Office (an enormously important casting agency) asking me to audition for a tiny role in a major film (they needed an older male dancer). My initial response was: “thank you so much, but no thanks. I don’t perform any more and I can’t really turn my life upside down at this point for a performing job”. But he was very persuasive. And I went through the audition process.

And now I wait.

I check my email.

And I wait.

So I am now even shorter (a tiny bit UNDER over 5’5”). I am even now older; I can smell 63. I have no Broadway show or major dance company on my résumé. And I have responsibilities that prevent me from leaving New York City. But now I have something else. Now I have hope. Because whether I book this job or not, whether I ever book another performing job or not, I know that there are possibilities, and what could be more wonderful? So I’m looking into the future with my new-found hope. And once again, I’m dancing.