There is nothing quite like the feeling of pure, overwhelming joy. The kind a fifteen-year-old aspiring ballerina might experience on a gloomy, February morning when they receive a phone call informing them that they have been accepted into one of the most prestigious ballet schools in the country. The feeling of utter conviction that all the hours of training after school, the juggling of academia with rehearsals, the sacrificing of parties and school trips and holidays for competitions were all worth it. All for this very moment.
That fifteen-year-old was me. That moment of pure joy was mine. Instead of finishing my GCSEs and progressing to a college or sixth form, like most young people my age, I moved 130 miles away from home and spent three years training to be a professional ballerina. I was living the dream that so many little girls never had the chance to.
The ballet world is, to most, an inaccessible place. It is as though one is standing outside a locked door and the key to entry is arched feet, slender legs, a long neck and high extensions. To make it in the ballet world, you must be physically gifted. The auditions for vocational ballet school involve two classes: a preliminary and a final. There are often hundreds of applicants for a handful of places.
Those who make it past the finals are then subject to an exhaustive physiotherapy examination which looks at everything from the rotation of your hips to the flexibility of your toes. No physical restriction is left undiscovered.
Professional ballerinas did not have time to be tired.
The summer before I left home to pursue my passion for dance, I spent every single day in the gym or ballet studio. All successful applicants were sent a training program which we were to perform daily: it was rigorous, taxing and time-consuming. I completed it willingly and obsessively, never missing a day and often going above and beyond the specifications. Professional ballerinas did not have time to be tired.
By September, I was at the peak of my fitness. I packed my bags, bid my farewells and prepared myself for what I believed would be the happiest time of my life. Spending up to ten hours a day doing what I loved sounded like a small price to pay for a career on the stage.
My first year at ballet school was tough, but that was to be expected. Physically, I was being worked harder than ever. Mentally, I was constantly drained.
Favouritism is an inevitable part of any child’s learning experience. Even teachers in ‘normal’ schools (as we nicknamed those who didn’t spend hours stretching before their first class in the morning) display some preference towards students they view as particularly bright or promising.
However, favouritism takes on a new form at ballet school. Being ‘liked’ by a teacher holds far more power when you know your acceptance into the school is under constant review. With annual assessments determining whether we would make it into the next year, being a favourite was imperative for survival.
When I first joined ballet school, I was part of a year of 27. By the time I graduated, that number had dropped to 18, only three of whom were male. These high numbers of dropouts (or ‘assessed-outs’) were not unusual. There is an unspoken acceptance for this kind of natural selection; the extreme competition of dance ensures that only the fittest survive.
In my second year, my female ballet teacher was forced to take time off for mental illness. This resulted in the girls being combined under the male instructor who also suffered with mental health problems.
The final two years of my time in ballet school posed the hardest test of my life.
Re-adapting to life after the stage is known to be a struggle. Nothing can quite match the rush of adrenaline felt on landing a perfect turn or complex jump to the rapturous applause of the audience. As a result, mental health problems amidst teachers, who were almost entirely ex-dancers, was rife.
In my second year, my female ballet teacher was forced to take time off for mental illness. This resulted in the girls being combined under the male instructor who also suffered with mental health problems.
For those who do not know much about the intricacies of classical dance, the stress placed on the bodies of a female and male dancer are crucially different. Women are taught to move fast on the tips of their toes, this feat made possible by pointe shoes with wooden boxes at the end; men are trained to jump high and lift their partners.
The male teacher failed to adapt his classes to suit young girls’ bodies. Consequently, his dogged commitment to traditional methods left fifteen girls injured by the end of the term: myself included.
I spent days sleeping in my bed rather than stretching at the barre. I lost over a stone, weighing a mere 7 stone 2 pounds, and I was admitted to hospitals over concerns of liver failure.
My injury involved countless, tiny micro-fractures underneath my foot which made it sickeningly painful to walk, let alone dance. Treatment included cortisol injections and a boot, as well as no dancing for four months.
I worked hard to stay positive: practising Pilates religiously, swimming regularly and watching my diet. After four months, I was given the all clear.
Alas, my insistence to recover had propelled me out of the frying pan and into the fire. My unwillingness to slow down, and take the time I needed to recover, caught up to me. I began to feel fatigued, feverish and fragile.
Glandular fever extended my recovery period to seven months. I spent days sleeping in my bed rather than stretching at the barre. I lost over a stone, weighing a mere 7 stone 2 pounds, and I was admitted to hospitals over concerns of liver failure.
The beginning of third year came and I vouched to rebuild my strength and prioritise my body. I spent hours with a brilliant rehabilitation teacher, who oversaw my return to dancing whilst nurturing both my mental and physical health.
Things were looking up and I was granted some incredible opportunities; notably, dancing on BBC Children in Need and performing with the Birmingham Royal Ballet.
And still, the dance world had not yet shown its worst.
Just as my second-year teachers had struggled, my final year instructor was known to have his battles with alcoholism. A renowned name in the industry as a star of his time, his ‘secret’ was kept by staff and students alike.
He passed away, suddenly, midway through the year, leaving a seven-year-old daughter behind.
My romanticised view of the dance world was all but shattered.
After graduating, I continued to dance for a few more months before finally accepting that my passion for ballet had all but burnt out.
I will never stop loving ballet; however, the utter devotion that it demands from you, was, for me, too high price to pay.
I have written this article not to try and change the dance world, that is not my place. There are many who have navigated the stumbling blocks of this lifestyle to lead successful careers.
I hoped merely to provide a small window into this clandestine world. To draw back the curtain, ever so slightly, to remind audiences that there is more to a dancer’s life than the evening of ethereal, effortless movements that they witness before them.
I aimed to encourage theatregoers to appreciate not only the physical, but the mental strength of the individuals onstage.
My story ends at university where I have made wonderful friends and have begun to catch up on the ‘normal’ life I never had the chance to lead. I will never stop loving ballet; however, the utter devotion that it demands, was, for me, too high a price to pay.
And what would I say to the fifteen-year-old girl who would be so heartbroken if she knew I’d given up on her dream?
I’d tell her that maybe, just maybe, those ‘normal’ people aren’t so bad after all.
And that maybe, just maybe, life is still pretty good when you’re sat on the opposite side of the curtain.
Niamh Robinson
Featured image courtesy of maeve_ab9 via Flickr. No changes made to this image. Image license found here.
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