advocates — OKAY, LET'S UNPACK THIS

mental health advocates

"content warning: this page discusses sexual abuse, death, depression, drug use and suicidal thoughts, self harm, and eating disorders. if any of these topics are challenging for you, please consider skipping to another page, or returning at a safer time.”

CHANEL DASILVA IN CONVERSATION WITH OKAY, LET'S UNPACK THIS

Chanel DaSilva, dancer, choreographer, dance educator and Co-Founder and Artistic Director of MOVE|NYC| sat down with Leal Zielińska, founder of Okay, Let’s Unpack This, and artistic associate with Gibney Company, to discuss DaSilva’s recent personal essay published by Dance Magazine.

Dance specific initiatives of support:

The Dance Safe - advocating for survivors of abuse in the dance field.
Youth Protection Advocates in Dance - YPAD courses empower dance professionals with best practices for a safe and sustainable future in the dance industry.
Whistle While You Work - a platform co-directed by Frances Chiaverini (dancer/choreographer) and Robyn Doty (writer/dramaturg) that promotes conversation around harassment, discrimination, and violence towards women and marginalized groups particularly while at work in the arts, especially in professional dance and performance.

JORDAN

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

A strong, loving, and fierce single mother, who had her fair share of demons to fight, raised me. She was my best friend, my safe haven, and my home. However, she got connected to the wrong man, the father of my two brothers, who eventually introduced her to drugs. By my senior year, she had been in and out of rehab until eventually, her body started getting sick from all of the wear and tear of the drugs. In 2010, due to bronchial asthma, we found her dead on our couch.

My birth father never wanted me, and had no problem expressing it, so I could not turn to him for support. I had become a parentless seventeen year old. Luckily I had amazing grandparents that helped raise me and my brother, Nick. Two years later, we lost my brother, Sean, to a drug overdose.

At this point, I felt empty. We were still grieving our mom; I didn’t even know how to process another loss. I started having dark thoughts and thinking of ways that I could end all of my suffering and pain. I started comparing myself to everyone who had “perfect” families. I would let envy take over and act out because of it. As if it were anyone’s fault for what I went through. To this day, I still have an off day where a bad thought will creep in. However, I have learned how to deal with my depression/negative thoughts through my community of loved ones and through dance.

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

Mental health is a big topic in my life right now. The standing of my own and that of others. I think that this topic is important not only in our daily lives but in the dance community as well. Over the past 3 years I have been on a long journey to better myself as a person and become more stable in the way that I take care of myself and strive to be healthy and well-rounded. I have struggled with alcoholism and depression and it hasn’t been until the last couple of years that I have felt comfortable talking openly about these things. I am currently 3+ years sober and in recovery and now work in drug and alcohol recovery helping others who are dealing with the same hurdles that I went through.

I had a long history of using drugs and alcohol to cope with my depression and the inability to be comfortable with myself. When I was 3 years old my dad killed himself. He was someone who struggled with alcoholism so there was a big chance that I was going to get that gene, it was just a matter of time. Growing up I was always the quiet, reserved child who seemed like they didn't need much attention. Once I hit about 13/14 years old I started acting out and feeling symptoms of depression. I was cutting myself, and fighting with my family, acting out sexually and I was using alcohol as a way to get out of my own head. I started drinking to the point of blacking out and that level of alcohol abuse continued and escalated until I was 22 years old.

I truly believe that a huge reason I was able to get through a lot of this was because of dance. I was able to lose myself in a similar way that alcohol let me run away but I was on stage or in the studio doing something good for my well-being. I had a passion for something that kept me occupied in times where I couldn’t stand being in my own head. I was never someone that had an easy time articulating how I was feeling inside so it was helpful to use my body and move. Although I had dance as a way to express myself, I kept a lot of my feelings bottled up inside me and never felt comfortable opening up. I hated myself and had such a hard time enjoying life. I didn't know why I felt this way. I had a loving family, dance, friends and what seemed like the perfect life but I was miserable. Unfortunately it had to get to a life threatening dark place in order for me to finally get help and realize that a change needed to be made.

Recovery has been the most amazing and most difficult thing I have ever done and it will forever be a continuing journey. Since I have taken away all mind altering substances I have been able to actually feel my feelings, learn to sit in them, and have built a list of healthy ways to cope. I have been extremely fortunate to have such a big support system throughout this process. This is something I wouldn’t have been able to achieve without the people around me holding me up. I have been able to move past the shame of being an alcoholic, the shame of being someone with depression, and the shame of having trauma in my story. There is still such a stigma of what depression, anxiety, ED, alcoholism/drug addiction, etc. looks like and I am working hard to fight that. I currently work with people who are in early stages of recovery to help normalize what they are going through and be there as a person to support and relate to. It is so important to have an ongoing dialogue on the topic of mental health so that people know that they are not alone and that they are not judged.

AMANDA

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

Initially, when Leal asked me to share my story I was honored. My rational brain understands that the more this conversation is brought to the forefront of our lives, the more people will understand that mental health is a huge issue in today's society and even more so in the dance community. The rigorous training, hours on end in the studio, pushing our bodies to extreme limits all become ordinary and 'normal'. Self-talk becomes more intense, harsh, and critical as the need for perfection, in all aspects becomes the overall goal. The saddening truth is the mere fact that many people feel this way in the dance community, but this situation is not spoken about. In fact, many teachers say to leave your personal lives and issues out of the studio...so I have immense gratitude for Leal's compilation of stories from fellow dancers. This is absolutely necessary.

As a child, I was always so happy, playful, outgoing, and loved making friends. Being in dance really helped me find my community and life-long relationships. I excelled in school and in dance and never really thought twice about my path. It was not until I was twelve years old I began questioning my worth, comparing myself and the idea of perfection began to creep into the back of my mind. It’s also when I really started to think about my body. I was always thin and long growing up, and had teachers tell the other girls in the room that I 'had the perfect ballet body'. So inevitably I believed that to my core, I thought I was so lucky to have the best body in the room... But felt terrible when my friends had to look at me and began to resent their own bodies.

It was at fourteen years old when I began showing glimpses of depression, I remember crying in the back of the class and on the way home from dance each night and not understanding why I was not perfect, why I could not jump higher, have better feet, or more turnout... My parents had no idea what to do or how to make me feel better. Yet, I persisted and slowly life began to brighten up.

I was accepted into a nationally recognized performing arts high school and began focusing on improving my craft from a professional standpoint. In high school I wouldn't eat breakfast, at times would skip lunch, or not eat dinner... But it never seemed like a problem because if I was with friends or at a family gathering I would gorge myself with food. I concluded I was a social eater. I remained thin, in my teens having teachers make comments like 'don't throw up your food' or 'are you sure you are not anorexic’ and to my belief, I did not have an eating disorder, I always ate when I was hungry and never restricted. I was content despite the weekly food diary's my teacher had my entire class write to hold ourselves 'accountable' for our food choices... mind you we were all fifteen, incredibly active, not overweight, and just going through puberty. But for some reason, larger breasts and butts were a problem due to the milk fat percentage we drank.

Nonetheless my friends and I persisted and then I was accepted into The Juilliard School. My efforts and years of training finally paid off as I was headed into the best performing arts conservatory in the world. The high standards and comparison game came back full force as I realized I was no longer 'Amanda with the best body in the class' I was 'Amanda in a room full of the best of the best'. I shrank and deemed my only way to succeed was to perfect my physique. It took two years of the regiment and discipline, hours of pilates, in the gym, and then finding a relationship with food I felt I understood and sustained. By all means, at the beginning I was actually very healthy, finally eating three balanced meals a day, something I never did as a child, drinking plenty of water daily, getting sufficient sleep and feeling the most confident. But then the game of restriction came into play the summer between my second and third year of college. I was living in New York City for the summer working at school and was responsible for my own groceries and meal planning for the first time ever. I became weary of spending too much money on healthy foods so I would ration my portions to make my food last as long as possible. I was walking everywhere because I was afraid of spending money on public transit, and I was very depressed and not dancing nearly as much as I had hoped. I was so excited to begin school and get back to my routine, I felt confident and strong... until I was called into a meeting with the associate director and was told I was too thin, I was forced to see counseling, a nutritionist, and scheduled physician appointments weekly. I was put under a microscope and expected to gain weight. Within six weeks, I had not gained an ounce and was dismissed from school on medical leave for a year. In 24 hours I was on a plane heading to Miami, not knowing what the future held. I was told I could not dance because it was too strenuous, my family had no money for any sort of eating disorder facility or treatment center, I felt lost, alone, and like a failure. But I was alive so I had to keep moving forward.

Little did I know that the worst was yet to come. It was a year of many failures and successes, hitting rock bottom and almost being committed into the psych ward, arguments with friends and family, and so many tears. It was simultaneously a year filled with so much love, growth, and compassion. I would not change it. Thankfully I was granted the opportunity to return to school and graduated in May 2018 at the top of my class. My recovery is continuous and I realize more and more that it will never truly go away, that negative self-talk or the pesky comparison game... yet through the tools I learned in therapy, podcasts and literature I am reminded 'this too shall pass'. There is incredible strength in what society might categorize as 'failure'. With patience, acceptance, and clarity I can say I am proud of my journey and all the hiccups that lie ahead of me.

Coco

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

For years leading up to company auditions, I experienced terrorizing thoughts that I would never get a job in ballet. What if I actually wasn’t good enough? What if I just couldn’t make the cut? These questions had always been on my mind but grew louder the older I became. During the summer before my senior year of college, my anxiety was higher than ever. I was overwhelmed by the fear of auditioning and not being good enough for a professional contract - what I had worked towards for 20 years. I was paralyzed by these thoughts until my mom told me I needed professional help. After multiple phone calls with me in tears and consumed by stress, she gave me the tough love I needed. She said she no longer recognized me. She saw me constantly getting in my own way and didn’t know how to help anymore.

She pushed me to start speaking with a sports therapist and little did I know how grateful I would be. My mom did a lot of research to find someone who would understand the intensity of pursuing a career in ballet. Someone trained to help athletes handle the physical and mental stress of a performance based career. My therapist, Julie Learner, a sports therapist and performance coach, works with all kinds of athletes including Olympians. After only a few sessions, I knew my life had changed. I have been speaking with Julie for over two years now and although I have bad days, or even weeks, I am in a much better place than I was in 2018 and so is my dancing.

I struggled with wanting to begin therapy because I didn’t have a specific injury, body image issue, or traumatic event that lead to my mental instability. It was simply the accumulation of all that it takes to become a professional ballet dancer. Something only fellow aspiring dancers can understand. Even if you feel you don’t have a reason to be struggling, it’s okay if you are. I remember feeling like I didn’t have a reason to be in therapy, and feeling weak as a result. I told myself “maybe I’m just not cut out for this career.” This wasn’t true! All I needed to learn was how to step out of my own way.

I never want other dancers to feel the way I did. I want them to know that they are stronger than most for realizing they need help and for taking the initiative to get it. I also think it’s important to realize that therapy is not confined to dance specific problems. At first I only spoke to Julie about performance anxiety, dieting, and other dance related issues but quickly found myself wanting to discuss other aspects of my life. My family, my relationships, etc. I was apprehensive to bring up these topics because she is a SPORTS therapist. When I eventually asked if we could address these thoughts, she was saddened to know I had been withholding them. She explained how all aspects of my life cross over into dance. If I didn’t deal with these stressors during our sessions, I would only bring them with me into the studio and therefore hinder my performance. We are dancers but we are also people. It is crucial to our mental health that we address both sides.

Due to COVID-19 this past year has not been easy for me or the entire dance community. It’s taxing to have to push yourself to take class everyday in your living room. To keep yourself motivated without a performance in sight, other dancers in the room, or even a mirror to correct yourself. I’ve struggled with the anxiety that I am not doing enough to stay in shape. The anxiety that others are surpassing me and the years I have left as a dancer are wasting away. Whenever these thoughts pop into my head I visualize a lazy river, place each thought on the river, and allow it to float away. I shudder to think about how I would’ve handled this year with no prior mental health training. It is because of the work I’ve put in since 2018 that I am strong enough to endure the hardships of the pandemic.

When I first started therapy, I was embarrassed. Honestly, it wasn’t until my dancing improved as a result that I started telling people. Several of my professors approached me about the change in my presence and confidence and therefore in my dancing. I was proud to tell them it was because of mental health training. Since then I have been passionate about sharing my mental health journey and how it has forever changed my life.

If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to speak to someone a lot sooner. The amount of progress I’ve made since speaking to Julie is incomparable to the first three years of college, when I buried my anxiety until I’d explode. From my experience in the dance industry, there is a line drawn between what you can and cannot talk about. It’s totally acceptable to talk about a sprained ankle but not okay to say I am suffering from an anxiety attack. It is because of organizations like okayletsunpackthis that this line is being destroyed. I encourage all dancers to take part in the conversation, understand the importance of mental health, and realize how beneficial it can be to your career.

So far one of my biggest take aways from my mental training is that everyone is on their own journey. It doesn’t matter how well Courtney is doing in class, or how Jennifer is cast A. Good for them! There is plenty of room in the world for them to succeed and for you to succeed as well. Don’t look around and compare yourself to other dancers who seem stronger - both mentally or physically. Focus on yourself and you will be incredible.

ANONYMOUS I

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

I have been hyper aware of my mental health for as long as I can remember. I was diagnosed with depression before entering kindergarten and have, over the course of my life, cycled through a long list of other diagnoses. It’s hard for a person that young to understand or answer accurately the questions being posed by doctors. It’s hard for a person that young to understand the label being put on them. It’s hard for a person that young to grasp the weight of that label — All I knew was that my parents were worried. And their worry paired with my frequent doctors visits meant that something was wrong and I shouldn’t talk about it.

When I left home for college, I made the decision to stop taking the medication I was on. Over the years, I had tried every cocktail of antidepressants and antipsychotics on the market. None worked as far as I was concerned, but my psychiatrist’s definition of “working” was much different than mine and I didn’t have health insurance that would provide access to talk therapy. I was there [in college] month after month, alive, still mostly able to go to school, to dance, and to function as a member of my family. For my psychiatrist, that meant the pills were working. Having had labels put upon me and prescriptions written for me for nearly thirteen years without my being asked what I wanted or felt I needed, I could care less what he thought.

I decided I would go to college without medication, a risky decision, but one that my parents supported.

That time was not without its struggles. I was sexually assaulted my junior year, and felt a deep depression crack open inside me. After spending some amount of time in denial, I finally reached out to a therapist on my college campus who I saw weekly throughout my senior year. Upon graduating and moving to New York City, I connected with a new therapist.

Therapy is one of the most important practices in my life. I do not blame anyone for the mental health treatment I received in my youth. I understand how much fear was surrounding every decision my parents and doctors made and I know that they acted out of love. But what I have come to realize is that those experiences were a trauma of their own. Year after year, in doctor’s office after doctor’s office, I wasn’t asked how I felt or what I needed. I was silenced and made to feel like my body and my health were not in my control.

In therapy, I am heard. I am in control. I am given the space to speak about how I feel, the tools to learn how to self-regulate, and the ability to identify when I need the support of a psychiatrist. It is far from easy to confront those painful years, the pain and trauma of my assault, and the many failed strategies for survival I developed, like isolating myself and self-regulating with a restrict and binge cycle of disordered eating. But I have been empowered by therapy to know that my body and my mental and physical health are in my hands. That feeling of control, in a life so often defined by emotions and moods that felt out of my control, has been life changing.

ANONYMOUS II

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

During college, I sustained a traumatic injury during a rehearsal for a dance department performance. Thankfully, my school had incredible and extensive physical therapy available to the dance students, and with this support I was able to be back in rehearsal and fully dancing fairly quickly.

Although I was technically fully healed, something felt off. I remember waking up on the day I was cleared to dance full of dread. I felt physically nauseous and had trouble breathing. I explained this to the physical therapist, and she told me that it was very typical to experience anxiety as a post-traumatic symptom. And while the day went fine, I remember a feeling of growing fear that would not be calmed.

I suddenly found that dancing scared me. I felt this fear in a deep, guttural place that was not rational. Over the course of the next few months, anytime I would experience a slight twinge of pain or a small pulling of a muscle, I would be filled with a dread that I could not let go of. I felt incredibly fragile, and it was disorienting to suddenly feel that dance, the thing that always made me feel full and most alive, suddenly had become a source of fear.

And a few months later, when a minor collision ignited a fear that I had re-triggered the initial injury, I felt a new level of panic. I found myself unable to breathe, unable to focus on anything else; it truly felt like I was dying. And all of this was made worse by the understanding deep inside of me that I was fine. That this reaction felt out of my control and completely irrational.

I decided that I needed to start therapy. Mental health care can look different for every individual, and psychotherapy may not be the best fit for everyone, but I wanted to give it a try. I’m very mindful of all the elements that fell into place for me to get access to this treatment: I grew up in an environment where mental health care was encouraged and normalized, and I am aware that far too many folks who seek mental health care face barriers that prevent them from doing so, be it financial, social, logistical, etc. I found a new therapist, recommended by a family friend, and cautiously started sessions. I began to slowly explain what I was feeling: The details of my injury, my fears about my body’s fragility, my unexplainable sense of dread and panic. As I began to get to know my therapist, the conversation began to become broader in scope. I went in looking for answers to what felt like a pressing problem: Why couldn’t I get over my fear of injury, and why was the fear so all-consuming? Slowly my therapist pushed me to increase the scope of that question.

What are the underlying fears that inform this panic? What does it mean to feel fragile or vulnerable? How do I relate to my body and its precariousness, and how does this relationship impact how I view my career, my relationships, my emotions? I began to see a larger picture: I have an anxiety disorder and multiple obsessive compulsive tendencies. These things had always been true, but it took a heightened experience of their grip on me for me to understand what that meant and how that functioned within my life.

While it was exciting to begin to have a name for what was happening inside my head, that did not mean my anxiety or my obsessive compulsive behaviors stopped. In fact, they got worse. I began to develop many small safety routines, that I knew were irrational: things I would not allow myself to do, ways in which I would hold and protect my body, things I would avoid letting others do to my body. I felt ashamed of these impulsive behaviors, but I also could not stop myself from behaving this way. I learned from my therapist that this is typical obsessive compulsive behavior: fixating on small tasks and behaviors that you feel you need to complete in order to be safe.

I was trying so hard to be rational and not need these behaviors, but I finally I had to decide for myself that I would rather allow myself to be irrational and do what I need to do to feel safe than hold myself to a standard of “rationality” that left me afraid and unable to participate in my own life. I think being in therapy allowed me to make this choice. Knowing that I was actively engaged in the long term work of getting at the root of the anxiety, and therefore that these irrational acts of safety would hopefully not be permanently necessary.

And I have to say that three years later this strategy has paid off. But it took a lot of patience. There were so many moments when I felt that this anxiety meant I could not possibly be a professional dancer. I spent a lot of time and energy hiding my anxious and obsessive coping mechanisms from everyone around me. I thought that if people really knew what I needed to do to feel safe, they would think I was too weak to be a dancer. I thought I was too weak to be a dancer. I felt like I was an imposter just waiting to be found out. In those moments, I tried to remember that while I would always be someone who struggles with anxiety, these specific coping mechanisms were not permanent. I had to trust myself and trust the work.

Slowly, over years of work, I have been able to let go of many of the obsessive tendencies I had developed to make myself feel safe. I have grown so much in how I respond to injury and the vulnerability of my body; it is work, but I find I am able to feel grounded and rational throughout the rough spots, and I have the tools to feel safe and to take care of myself. I know myself and I know when I need to take extra care and when I can enjoy feeling a bit more freedom to breathe. Feeling this change and this progress within my own body and mind is the most powerful and rewarding feeling I have ever experienced.

And while it was disorienting and destabilizing to have dance be the thing that scared me most, on this side of that growth I am struck by the realization that all the work I put into healing and fighting through that fear just shows just how important and sustaining dance is to me. I feel grateful to have something so worth fighting for.

ANONYMOUS III

note - this submission has been edited in collaboration with our Clinical Advisory Board

I started taking dance classes at the age of three and I remember in one of my early ballet classes, maybe around 5 years old, my teacher laughingly poked my stomach and said “suck in your belly”. This moment was one of many in my youth that made me think that my body wasn’t “right” for dancing.

This moment was so brief, but looking back I am convinced it was formative. There were phases throughout my life where I experienced pure ecstasy and joy from dancing. This love of moving kept me in the studio, but so much of this happiness was sandwiched with pain.

Around the time of puberty, 13 years old, my obsession with molding myself into a “dancer body” started to develop by what I ate. In middle school, I would buy school lunch everyday but wouldn’t eat anything fried, with carbs, or anything with butter on it. Sometimes I would only eat the fruit cup on the plate. I would be starving by the time I went to dance class but was fueled by the compliments I received from my dance teachers about my body. Often at the end of the day, because of restricting myself, I would binge on bowls of sugary cereal or ice cream. I remember feeling so much shame and guilt after binging. As I went into high school, my habits transformed mainly into cycles of binging then extreme limiting of food intake.

All of the social events that were supposed to be fun became torture for me. At birthday parties I would feel so guilty about eating pizza, mac & cheese, and cake. Sometimes I would be so overwhelmed by being around these “unhealthy” foods that I would completely lose control and overeat. My whole life centered on food rather than enjoying time with friends. I felt jealous of the other kids who would enjoy the moment and weren’t constantly thinking about food.

By the middle of my senior year I was auditioning for colleges, and this intensified my eating disorder to the extreme. I had been told by other dancers who went on to college, that being at your thinnest when you audition helps your acceptance into a program. I was determined to be at my thinnest. Again, during this time I was praised by my dance teachers at how my body looked, and any time I slipped up I thought it reflected on how serious I was or wasn’t about being a professional dancer. I sincerely thought that a big indicator for being a successful professional dancer was to be extremely disciplined with what you eat. I was on a diet regime of no carbs, no fried food, no oil or butter, and little salt.

After all my auditions were over I went on a spring break cruise with some friends from high school. There was unlimited food on the boat, including ice cream cones. Each night we would sit down for a three course meal and I couldn’t control myself. In some ways I felt relieved to be away from the world that caused me so much torment, that I was constantly trying to fit into, yet also felt shame and guilt at letting go. I was planning my “getting back into shape” regimen at every waking moment. At the end of this trip I received the acceptance letter from my dream school.

The latter part of my senior year, I religiously used laxatives. Previously, I would only use them when I felt really awful about how much I ate. By senior year they were a part of my daily routine. I started experiencing hair loss and became anemic, often sleeping through many classes. I hid everything from my family. My sister suspected something was wrong and often tried to discuss it with me, I responded with anger and denial. My mom thought I became anemic because I had become a vegetarian.

The summer before college, I started to drink with a boyfriend and his friends. I started to develop a habit of binge drinking, often blacking out or throwing up. I carried this habit into my freshman year at college, along with my binge eating, purging, diet restrictions, and limiting of food intake. Everything for me was an extreme; I didn’t know how to take care of myself and didn’t feel I deserved to be taken care of. Continuing a pattern of extreme lifestyle choices, I started to experiment with drugs like Adderall, which was sadly somewhat popular among dancers in my conservatory to suppress their eating habits. I bought the pills from a dancer who had a prescription for ADHD. The Adderall not only suppressed my appetite, but would make it so that I only needed 1-2 drinks to feel “messed up” and didn’t get that sleepy feeling that alcohol gave me. After using it every weekend for a couple months, I started to feel withdrawn and cranky. I felt I couldn’t be emotionally present in my dance work and that terrified me. I stopped taking it.

What ultimately saved me was my love for my craft. I started to see a therapist my sophomore year on campus and she helped me understand my relationship to food. There was a sobering statement she made about the longevity of my dance career. The thought of not being able to dance because I am too sick or weak frightened me. I credit her words as the beginning of my recovery.

The recovery was slow, mostly it just started as a thought in my brain that previously was unimaginable. I started to become worried about the fragility of my body and wanted to see myself as strong and whole rather than weak. Simultaneously my sickness saw a desire to have a normal relationship to food as a weakness. The mental defenses I had built up to preserve my disorder were the hardest to overcome. It almost became something I was proud of. Proud that I was strong enough to limit what I ate, take laxatives and be dehydrated, have my hair fall out, etc.

It’s been almost 5 years since I spoke to that therapist and my thinking began to shift. I really wasn’t able to fully have space to heal until I left the dance institution I was in. I was surrounded by people struggling with similar issues, and the institution didn’t speak up, in fact in some ways they encouraged it. I’m sure many of my teachers had similar experiences and see having eating issues as a normal part of a dancer’s life.

Now I have, what seems to me, a really amazing relationship to food. I don’t limit anything from my diet. I still weigh myself daily, but don’t feel like the world is ending if the number is not to my liking. Occasionally I binge eat, especially at family gatherings. I do feel some guilt or sadness but it doesn’t consume me and I never feel the urge to take a laxative. Usually I forget that I overate by the next morning. I don’t limit my diet. I treat myself often to delicious foods that are fried, cooked in butter, and have carbs. Sometimes I feel insecure about my body in dance settings, but the insecurity usually gets pushed aside by a confidence and appreciation for my body that supports me everyday.

I truly think I would’ve been able to reach this point at a much younger age if the community I was a part of was sensitive to these issues that so many dancers face. If they had resources available to me that were clearly advertised at the studios, at shows, etc. If we had on call counseling like we had an on call physical therapist. I look back at this time in my life with deep sadness for that girl who spent so many years in pain for no reason.