Post-Final Revision

Breaking Boundaries: My Journey in B-Boying

Breaking, b-boying, or b-girling have always been about more than just dance moves and tricks. It’s a culture, a history, and a form of self-expression rooted in the hip-hop movement of the 1970s. It began in the streets of the Bronx, where DJs extended the instrumental breaks of funk records, providing dancers with a beat to move to. What began as an underground movement soon became a global phenomenon, being recognized even in the Olympics, blending athleticism, artistry, and storytelling. But for me, breaking wasn’t about making history; it was about finding my confidence and discovering my own rhythm.

(Subheadings removed) When I first got into breaking, I wasn’t thinking about the culture, competitions, or even dance. I just wanted to learn cool moves. Some of my friends were part of our high school’s b-boy club (Specifically, my early days were from high school), and I’d watch them effortlessly spin, freeze, and pop back up as if it were second nature. Their movements were smooth yet powerful, and though I admired them, I never considered joining. Practicing in front of others felt too intimidating. Instead, I danced alone in my room, with only my dog as a witness. My older brother, who’d been breaking for a while, saw potential in me before I did. “You should try this move,” he’d say, randomly bursting into the room and throwing himself into a spin on our living room floor. The carpet would scrape under his hands, and the sound of his shoes spinning in a controlled arc made it clear that he knew exactly what he was doing. Then he’d look at me expectantly: “Come on, just try it.” At first, I’d laugh it off, half-expecting to trip over myself. But after watching him a few times, I decided to give it a shot. And surprisingly, I wasn’t bad. I hadn’t yet achieved his precision, but I could sense the potential. Each attempt left me breathless and exhilarated. It wasn’t long before I found myself hooked on the challenge.

Determined to improve, I started practicing obsessively. My brother introduced me to the windmill, a classic power move that involved spinning while my legs whipped around me. It wasn’t as hard as I initially thought, and it motivated me to start learning a move called flares. At first, it seemed impossible to have my legs fly around in the air with only my hands on the floor. My wrists ached, my feet burned from scraping the floor, and my sides took on more than a few bruises from countless failed attempts. Still, I kept going. I practiced religiously whenever I had the chance. I studied YouTube tutorials, pausing and rewinding until the movements were etched into my muscle memory. The sound of my hands slapping the floor, the steady rhythm of my breathing, and the music pulsing in the background became my new soundtrack. I even recorded my practice sessions, watching them later to analyze what I needed to improve. Looking back at those videos now, I can see just how much progress I made returning each day. (See here for early flare practice to now)

A few weeks later, I managed a few continuous rotations. The moment I found that flow of momentum, surpassing one single flare to multiple, I felt an electrifying rush of accomplishment. That’s when I decided to take a leap. I walked into my friends’ practice session and announced, “Watch this.” With my heart pounding, I dropped onto the floor and started spinning. The thud of my back hitting the floor, the swoosh of my legs slicing through the air, it all felt great. When I finished, I looked up to see their stunned faces. “When did you learn that?” one of them asked. The others smiled, offering tips and encouragement. That day wasn’t just about showing off a move. It was my first real taste of a practice session, a group of people sharing ideas, pushing each other to get better, and cheering one another on. I quickly realized this wasn’t just a club, it was a community. Before I knew it, I showed up to practices regularly, laughed with my friends, and pushed myself to improve.

Breaking is built on four fundamental elements to construct a set, what we call a breaker’s performance from start to finish. Top rock, upright steps that establish rhythm and style. Footwork, intricate patterns on the floor. Power moves, spins, and dynamic tricks, then there are freezes, hitting still poses on beat. Every breaker specializes in a combination of these elements, and my crew at school was no different. Most of them leaned toward footwork, weaving their legs in rapid, complex motions. But I gravitated toward power. I wanted to fly.

What started as a hobby gradually became something bigger. Our crew started training seriously, performing at pep rallies, and even competing at local festivals. The thrill of battling another crew, ting through your moves. Unknowingly, the energy I projected was that I was a serious competitor, despite my reserved personality. It took me watching and attending a few battles to realize that the moves I was trying to get were very sought-after. (See here for a past battle clip) At first, I entered to test myself; winning was never my expectation, though that tiny, persistent “What if?” lingered in the back of my mind. The people I encountered in these battles weren’t just random dancers; many were familiar faces from public dance studios, ranging from other beginners to seasoned veterans who had been part of the scene for years. I’d crossed paths with them at practice sessions, exchanged a few words, and got a tip or two, though I wasn’t particularly close with any of them. Still, when I ran into them in competition, they brought some of their best moves, including their signature tricks. “Against me, of all people.” I thought. At first, I found it amusing, even flattering. But then I realized something important: if dancers with years of experience felt the need to use their best moves against me, it meant I was making an impression. “Dang,” I thought to myself. “If they see me as a threat, that has to mean something.”

When I first got to college, my priorities shifted. The free time I once had to practice three to five times a week in high school was now taken up by coursework and studying. I missed the rhythm of those regular sessions, but I couldn’t commit to the time anymore. Then, during my second semester, I ran into an old crewmate who also attended San Diego State University (SDSU). Seeing a familiar face brought back a rush of memories, and for a moment, I felt the excitement I once had when breaking was a regular part of my life.

We talked about starting a club at State, but we were too busy to follow through. Still, he had another proposal: “There’s a 3v3 collegiate battle coming up called Claim to Fame 2024. I need a college student crewmate, what do you think?” I hesitated. I hadn’t practiced seriously in months and wasn’t sure I could get back into shape. But when he said it was still a month away, I thought, “Why not?” The idea of getting back on the floor and maybe capturing some new footage gave me the push I needed. So, I agreed.

For the next few weeks, we met whenever we could. I made time to train, pushing my body back into motions it hadn’t felt in months. The sessions were grueling, my muscles felt weaker, and my confidence was more fragile than before. Still, we kept at it. My crewmate introduced me to a new teammate, and together we worked on routines and polished our best combos. Each practice felt like a battle, trying to recapture that flow, that strength, that edge. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the break I’d taken, but this time, something was different. This wasn’t just any battle. It was a collegiate event. Only students could compete, and that meant the playing field was different. For the first time in a long while, the odds felt even. I let myself believe, just a little, that we had a real shot. By this time, my mindset for battling had made a major shift. I had enough experience to be confident about our ability to succeed and I was eager to prove that to myself. (Strengthening the theme of growth)

Each round of the competition was fierce. By the time we reached the Top 8, we had grown familiar with the rest of the competition and were strategizing as needed. Next, we faced UCSD, a crew with whom we had become acquainted during our preparation time and had a friendly rivalry. We would often practice at each other's schools, and we would jokingly say it would be cool if we ran into each other in the bracket. It's the type of relationship where if we lost, we would still cheer each other on in the coming battles. (Expanding on UCSD rivalry) The battle was intense, each of us facing off against a counterpart with a similar style. When we won two out of three rounds, I began to believe we had a real chance of taking the title.

The semi-finals raised the stakes even higher. Battling familiar faces is a chance to prove to the local dancers that you've been practicing and staying consistent. This time, we went against an East Coast crew known for their polished sets. It's a little scary not knowing what my opponents are capable of, but it's the same for them. (Why these moments felt significant) I stumbled my round pretty badly, but so did my opponent. I refocused, and my teammates stepped up with some of their strongest combos. We pushed through, securing our place in the finals. At that moment, I knew we were close. We had one last team to beat, and I was determined to finish strong.

Then came the final battle. The pressure was suffocating. I had never made it this far in a battle before, and my power move-heavy style was starting to limit me. Running out of moves, I decided to gamble, I threw in experimental moves I hadn’t fully mastered.  In my first round, I landed one of my more difficult power combos, feeding off the crowd’s energy. I stumbled a bit for my second round, too cautious with my movements, my slower pace threw me off. Thankfully, my crewmates stayed consistent. But when the match ended, the judges called a tie. One final tiebreaker round would decide it. At that point, I was completely out of moves.

I looked at my teammates and shook my head in dismay. “Not me,” I said. We sent out my old crewmate, and he went out with everything he had, making it clear to the crowd and the judges that he deserved the win. The room held its breath as the judges counted down, the tension almost unbearable, “Three, two, one.” Their hands shot up in our direction. The crowd exploded. Cameras flashed. I stood there in disbelief. We had won.

Standing on that stage, award in hand, I stood in disbelief, there was no way I was standing up here as the winner. I looked back to where I started, the kid too nervous to practice in public, the nights spent spinning alone in his room. I never would have thought I would be a dancer, let alone a competitor. To me, breaking wasn’t just about moves. It was about community, resilience, growth, and self-expression. From its roots in hip-hop culture to becoming an Olympic sport, breaking has always been about pushing boundaries, just like I did. As I stood there, surrounded by my crew and friends, I knew this wasn’t just the end of a battle, it was another chapter in my journey that would always be part of me. Breakers don’t just dance. We tell stories. And this was mine.