From barre to barbells

One ballerina’s journey to strength and self-confidence

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May 7, 2022 | Story by Emma Behrmann

When I was 9, my life revolved around ballet. I had broken my left arm, which stopped me from performing pirouettes and pliés, but the cast was hardly enough to keep me from my recital stage debut. I settled in front of a wall of mirrors in the dance studio and scribbled stage formations in my notebook with a puppy on the cover. I itched to be in my pink tights and black bodysuit; telling stories through movement.

But one night five years ago, hot tears streamed down my face. I yearned to disappear from the spotlight, to tear off the tights and the bodysuit that had long been my companions. I had reached my turning point.

I was only 4 when I began ballet. My mother enrolled me at Suncoast Academy of Dance. I don’t remember my tutu toddler years, but I remember the anticipation each Monday brought when I swapped out my Justice skirt and sequined T-shirt for ballet gear.

Dancing consumed me. Outside a trailer at the Hither Hills State Park campsite, I choreographed a dance with my cousin to “Count on Me” by Bruno Mars. Campers biked past and stared, but I paid no attention. On the dock outside a lake house, I practiced my arabesques. In the basement sporting my mom’s old dance costumes, my cousins and I twirled and leaped for the video camera. 

Dance was everything, and recital was my favorite. I loved the adrenaline rush as the velvet curtain rose and I could see my loved ones out there in the audience: Mom, Dad, Mamma and Pampa. Dad filmed my performance, which I would make everyone watch once more when we all returned home.  

I danced for others. But I also danced for myself. I glided across the floor. Each pointed-toe stride freed me from the stress of high school. Each successful spin whisked me further away from doubt. 

Eleven years passed, and I still raced home from school on Mondays—ready to learn more choreography, to leap across the room and to land a fouetté.

I was a dancer. Until that Monday night five years ago.

Before the tears, I had grand jetéd across the room. I had always been proud of my leaps. My muscular legs propelled me into the air, yet my flexibility crafted elongated angles of limbs. I landed, and the instrumental crescendo stopped. Miss Sam scowled.

Each ballerina sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor. Miss Sam, our temporary ballet teacher, shouted.

“Try harder! You need to treat each class as a performance.”

In silence, we nodded. I felt inspired to jump higher and higher, to push myself further and further.

But then she locked eyes with me.

“Emma, you need to try harder to show that bigger girls can dance.”

My eyes darted toward my slippers that squeezed my pinky toes too tight. Blotchy red spots appeared on my chest; my cheeks blushed to match my tights. My voice faded. No words came to my defense. I sunk deeper into the ground; her words weighing me down as if I were to never grand jeté again. I traced the black tape peeling off the floor and thought to myself. I had never categorized my body before. Yes, I noticed how my tights and bodysuit sectioned me in two. I noticed my fellow ballerinas’ slender limbs. I had never compared them to my own. Until now.

I suddenly felt out of place. Each time I caught a glimpse of my reflection, I noticed my size. Trapped by the mirrors in studio A, I knew recital was approaching. Only four months of practice remained. 

I shrunk as Miss Sam belittled me for my frame. The mirror reflected broad shoulders and a wide midsection, but inside I felt minuscule.

The mirror began to mock me in every class. My pink tights pinched the skin around my waist. At the barre, one mirror confronted me head-on; another glared from the side. I could see myself from every angle. I saw the ribs of my classmates peeking through their bodysuits. I saw my belly button through mine. I couldn’t avoid eye contact with the mirror. With each pirouette, ideas twirled in my head: I don’t belong here. Keep your spot! I’m not meant to be a dancer. Rounded arms. Eleven years here, but have I felt at home? Suck in.

Then the insecurity extended beyond the dance floor. 

In school, I sat at my desk with my arm glued to my side, paralyzed. I knew the answers to questions. I almost always did. But I let an awkward silence fill the room before I offered a response. I was the valedictorian of my class, but teachers and peers never knew who I was or what I had to offer. I found it easier not to bring attention to myself.

Monotonous Mondays continued until June 3, 2017, when I arabesqued off the recital stage at Ruth Eckerd Hall for the last time. My eyes gazed at my fingertips, pointed toward the velvet curtains that promised refuge from the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and comparisons that plagued my final months of dance.

These days, I am once again facing floor-to-ceiling mirrors six days a week. But now I live for it.

I look down and instead of pointed fingers resting on the white, plastic barre, callous-covered hands grip a rough, metal barbell. I lock eyes with myself in the mirror, a ballerina bun rests on the top of my head. My feet wiggle and find the perfect stance. I screw my shoulders into place and flatten my back. My mind is clear except for the internal monologue telling me: Breathe in. Brace. Up, up, you got it. Lockout. Yes!

Slipknot’s “Eyeless” roars through my AirPods, and I smile. The mirrored wall reflects a redhead covered in spandex staring in admiration of the body she’s built. My tomato-colored complexion a result of a 255-pound deadlift, not shame.

I feel my ballerina self fade with each clang of the plates against the platform. Although the top-knot bun and stretching sessions remain staples in my routine, that ballerina girl of my past would never recognize the new barbell girl. I look at myself in the mirror and aspire to be bigger.

With larger quads came a louder voice. Now, I sit at my desk and offer my opinions before silence has a chance to settle. I know the answer and I will be heard.  

I feel at home in the gym and within myself. I slam the weights with no tinge of embarrassment. I examine my shoulder veins in a room that brims with testosterone.  Amid metal, mirrors and muscle I define who I am. The “big” girl in the reflection refuses to shrink.