Since finishing my career as a professional ballet dancer over two years ago I have battled endlessly with the art form’s position in my life.  I have relegated my passion to the back burner for much of this transitional period—being the all or nothing person that I am—choosing instead to focus what energy I’ve had on the task at hand, be it writing, photography or concocting a Twitter update.

This is not a popular choice.  I am reminded so every time I am met with the question for which I have no conclusive answer: do you think you’ll ever dance again? It comes out of my parents’ mouths, my blog readers’ fingers as they type emails, and even strangers on the street who notice my face from all of the Ranting Details billboards currently populating the Times Square of my dreams.  By now I’ve become so accustomed to encountering this elephant of a question that I find myself reciting a stock answer with the same rote delivery as a telemarketer.  I don’t know, I say, cocking my head to the side and smiling through what has become an increasingly more comfortable conversation topic.

Though I’ve had moments recently where I’ve decided to take class on a whim or choreographed a solo for myself, I have never treated dance as something in which I can plainly dabble.  For when you immerse yourself so completely in something from the age of eleven it’s nearly impossible to take a step backwards and look at it differently.  Sometimes I feel dance is a family member I recently discovered isn’t a blood relative and I have to adjust to my altered perception. I just don’t know how to interact with it anymore.

Last week, this began to change.  I set foot in a classroom to teach a corral of young students at a workshop in Missoula, Montana—the first time I’d taught in nearly three years.  I’d known for months I would be standing at the front of a room wearing jazz sneakers and doing my best to keep my voice from rattling like the change in my pocket, but I was nervous nonetheless.

For the week leading up to the workshop I spent an hour each day concocting a lesson plan and, more often than not, laughing at my reflection in the mirror.  Where has my arabesque gone? I wondered.  And what about my ability to balance on one leg? Even the names of steps I’d executed daily since my twelfth birthday seemed as difficult to remember as foreign dignitaries.

But I trudged along.  I listened to the piano plodding a three-four time signature and moved my legs accordingly.  Within a matter of hours, collectively through the week, I had carried my body through a classical ballet technique class all the way from beginning to end.  True, I didn’t execute every move with full force.  But I was proud nonetheless.

Then the soreness hit.  Anyone who has ever danced understands the sick masochism that displays itself on such occasions; muscle soreness means you’ve been active, which can only be good, right?  Anyone who has ever not danced for two years and then danced again understands the intense amount of pain that displays itself on such occasions; it’s like jumping out of a plane without a parachute, hitting the ground and not only living to tell about it, but having to teach the next day.

Since I figured feigning a skydiving accident was out of the question I was left with no logical excuse for calling in sick to my first day of class.  So I lifted myself out of bed and made my way to the studio.  It felt strange having removed my ego from the situation.  I walked into the building and instead of lamenting the fact that the classroom was about a tenth of the size I was used to working in I felt as eager to tackle the task at hand as I had my first day as a professional dancer.  I began to realize there was a small chance I’d actually be able to invigorate these students in a different way than their daily teacher.  I also realized I might actually be able to teach myself a thing or two in the process.

We made our way through plies and tendues.  I clapped my hands to emphasize where the accents should hit in the music.  We made our way through turns and jumps.  And I began to smile.  With each combination I grew more confident barking out corrections and demanding something more from the dancers; and I slowly realized I could give myself permission to see this whole experience as something more for myself.

Too often I hear professional dancers discuss the parameters of their careers as being limited to the company in which they dance.  Once one achieves the level of excellence present at somewhere like American Ballet Theatre can there be anything else?  I always used to chide people with this mentality, but as I looked around my class the other day I realized I had limited myself in similar ways.  The reality is that my body still is not ready to journey back to the level of intensity at which I was operating before dealing with Epstein Barr Virus.   Even if I get to a healthy enough place for that to be a possibility I may not want it in the same way anymore.  But that doesn’t mean dance has to die for me.  Maybe it just needed to flatline for a moment before I was aware enough to bring it back to life.