My First Year of Dance
Published July 6, 2025 | Written June 10, 2025
I don’t seem the dancer type.
I’m short, relatively pudgy, and riddled with various impediments. I struggle to walk small distances. I lose my breath easily. I’m transgender.
Joining a dance class for the first time was, at my age, rather scary. I’m undeniably a late bloomer, and my peers have all been dancing since they were very young. The moves they’re capable of are ridiculous, and I’m endlessly impressed by their talents. They leap gracefully through the air and travel across the floor with a confidence I wish I had.
Meanwhile, I can hardly perform a ball change.
Last September, I joined the class with only two familiar faces to rely on. I was slow to learn, still a bit shy, but willing to give it my all. Theater is my calling—I’m an actor right now, but I’m training to be a drama teacher. Dance was the only skill I lacked to be a triple-threat, and I was more than ready to earn the title.
As months passed, I came to really adore dancing. I already danced in the mirror when I was alone, but practicing a choreographed piece was amazing. Learning real moves was so much fun, and the class was something I looked forward to at the end of my Mondays. In December, the company was organizing its annual Nutcracker performance. I didn’t expect to be cast, but our director approached me, offering me a part with minimal dancing. I played the nanny, a role which entailed herding a flock of the littlest students on and off stage. No dancing required.
I don’t think the folks from the studio know what it meant to me that they included me despite my lack of experience. It was incredible being among people who were enthusiastic to teach me. I'm so grateful to have found a place in my dance community.
But sometimes I still feel lost.
Being transgender in dance is a lot when you’re still finding your footing and unsure what rules you can break. One word to describe dance culture might be “conformist.”
Do your makeup exactly like this. Wear the costume we tell you to. Pull your hair back like this even though it’s totally unflattering and hurts your skull and makes you look bald. Of course, there is value to these strict regulations. I won’t discredit the importance of these visual elements. I’m a stage performer, I understand why we wear dramatic makeup—the spotlight makes you appear washed out. I understand how the costumes ensure there’s no distracting visual imbalance. And yet, I still don’t like it! The makeup and hair are unflattering. I look completely unlike myself. I love dance. So much. But I want to feel like me when I do it. After my first recital, I had to hurry out the door because there were only two hours left at the city’s Pride event. I was afraid of missing it for dance, so I was very intent on getting as much time there as possible. There I was among my queer folk, my family. But instead of feeling confident as Penny, in my tight bun and gaudy makeup, I felt like a person I'm not. I did not look like me. I did not feel like me.
But I don't plan on giving up dance for that. I feel so awful in the getup is because it exaggerates everything cisgender about me; the outside I look at every day and want to change because it doesn't match the inside. The solution, in my eyes, is to...come out. Be more trans. Express myself more than I have been. I recently came to the epiphany that I've experienced dysphoria for years. Now's the time to start changing, I think. In life, I'm becoming more androgynous, and thus more masculine. In dance, I'm looking for the little acts of rebellion. I have one more year at the studio, and I'm going to make it my queerest one yet.