BY LIZZIE VELAZQUEZ

    Growing up as a dancer is hard — the insane amount of stress and injuries we constantly endure for just two minutes on stage. But when you feel like you are flying, and when you’re gasping to catch your breath, you realize it’s all worth it. Dance is why I’m alive. 

    I’ve grown up in the studio. Since I was two years old, I have been in a tutu and leotard. This is my senior year. My last year dancing for the LimeLight Studio. Growing up, my favorite part of dance was watching the older girls perform. The underclassmen would cluster in the wings, eyes wide and mouths open, watching them give everything they had on that stage. I reminisce about the one senior helping me do my hair.
    “Make sure it’s really tight; I don’t want it falling out when I’m dancing,” I said.
    “I promise you, I’ll make sure to pin it in place. You are gonna do amazing,” she replied. 

    Now I’m the one the underclassmen will be watching. It’s my last dance. I’m a mix of excitement and sadness. I pack my bags and put on a sweatsuit with my studio’s name on it. I begin doing my makeup, listening to “Love in the Dark” by Adele. It’s the song I will be performing to for my last dance. I do the base of my makeup and move on to my eyeliner, painting on wings and making sure they are symmetrical and sharp. I move on to my hair, brushing it out and parting it down the middle. I grab a small section on top of each side and begin to braid, tying it off at the bottom with an elastic band and pulling all of my hair into a low ponytail. 

    I arrive at the school where we’re holding our recital. Hundreds of girls are running around in pretty dresses with their hair done. I’m going to miss this. I find out what number I am on stage and go place my bags down backstage. I find my dancemates and hug them, knowing that after today we will all go our separate ways. We all sit in a line in the wings with a perfect view of the stage. Watching all the numbers perform, one by one.
    “I wish I was that little again,” says Brynn.
    “I wish I could start dancing all over again,” I reply. 

    I start to get changed into my costume. A black dress. The skirt is completely transparent, but the top is black velvet with a high neck and no sleeves. Brynn zips me in and connects the two clasps securing it. I have done many styles of dance — ballet, hip-hop, jazz, tap, contemporary, and musical theater to name a few. However, my last dance will be a contemporary piece. Contemporary is my favorite style, as I can tell a story with my movements. 

    I slip on my contemporary shoes and stand in the corner backstage, looking at what number we are on. We have two numbers till I go on with my team.
    “Hustle time,” I say. 

    I grab my teammates and take them into the hallway. 

    “Let's run through our dance one more time and practice the lift.” 

    They nod in agreement. I grab my phone and play “Love in the Dark.” We run through the dance with ease, practicing our big lift at the end of the dance — grabbing our flyer’s feet and wrists, flying her in the air, and catching her. 

    “Contemporary ‘Love in the Dark’ on stage, please,” blasts through the intercoms.
    This is it. The moment I’ve been most excited for yet dreading the whole season. I freeze, looking at my dancemates and giving a weak smile. After a few seconds, I turn and run down the hall to backstage with them following behind me. 

    We get in line, holding each other’s hands. I'm going to go on stage last, so I’m last in line. The music starts. We let go of each other, take a deep breath, and they all walk out on stage. Leaving me behind. They get in position, sitting on the floor with their knees up, arms hugging their knees, and heads down. I see my dance teacher in the wings on the other side of the stage, watching our performance. I put on a smile and enter the stage.

    I have 10 counts before I need to be sitting on the floor like everyone else. I do three piqué turns, leading into an arabesque, leading into a double turn, and ending with me sitting on the floor. I can't help but smile. I love this feeling — like I'm flying and nobody is watching. We all begin dancing in unison, like we are one soul. Fifteen people moving as one. 

    We all start flying into the air. Not having time to take a breath, but not caring. Knowing we cannot take this moment for granted, trying to capture every millisecond and cherish it. I’m so focused on taking everything in that I barely notice the tears running down my face. We all pause together. It’s time for the lift. We run in a circle, we all come together, and in one quick swish we lift our flyer into the air, giving her the true feeling of flying. 

    We put her down, taking a breath with a little less anxiety on our shoulders now. We continue with the last 45 seconds of the dance. I make sure to finish every movement with feeling and power, following through completely. Performing for the last time, I can’t help but think about my first day of dance class. I was two. I can't remember much, but I do recall being the only kid in class with shoes that didn’t fit; I was so embarrassed that this girl next to me took off her shoes as well. I wonder if she’s still dancing or if she’s in the same boat as me, dancing for the last time. 

    The dance ends. My dancemates are in the same position on the floor as when we started, with me still standing, tears running down my face. I look out into the audience, take a deep breath, and walk offstage alone. I leave behind not only my dancemates, but also 15 years of dancing at the LimeLight Studio. 

    I collapse in my dance teacher’s arms, crying uncontrollably and hyperventilating. She holds me tight and tells me I’ll be okay. As the girls come offstage one by one, they enter the hug.
    “I want to go back, let me do it again, please. Please let me do it again,” I say uneasily.

    “Shhh, it’s time to move on,” my dance teacher replies. “You’re all grown up.”