It’s a Sunday evening. I’m sitting in a high school auditorium at the end of a dance competition, wondering how I ended up here again.

 

What was I thinking when that glossy flyer came in the mail and I decided to give competing another try? I spent countless hours filling out forms, collecting entry fees, and chasing parents through the studio parking lot to collect signatures on a liability waiver. I reserved a block of hotel rooms on my already smoking Visa card. I held extra rehearsals on Saturday mornings (and missed my daughter’s softball game). I ordered matching tights, made rhinestone earrings, spray-painted shoes, and dug up headpieces. I restaged choreography when three students discovered they had other commitments on competition weekend. I spoke to the dancers and their parents about my expectations, reminding them that we were going for the performance experience, certainly not to win a trophy or medal. My hopes were high and I was full of confidence. I wasn’t being paid for my extra efforts, but, I told myself, the positive learning experience for my students would be reward enough.

 

And now I sit—starving, exhausted, with a tension headache—in this theater seat, praying that the announcer will hurry up so I can escape. How many awards can that other school win? I have a two-hour drive ahead of me, and it’s a school night!

 

I think back over the weekend. I have logged enough miles running from the auditorium to backstage to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I have soothed frightened children, warmed up dancers, rehearsed and reworked routines in the hallway because one dancer became sick. I have stitched costumes, pinned straps, replaced rhinestones, and used enough hairspray to destroy half of a rain forest. I am sleep deprived because for two straight mornings my dancers were the second group onstage and a too-enthusiastic group of young dancers was in the hotel room next to mine. I have avoided the parents who cause me stress and sought the comfort of others who always make me laugh. My face hurts from holding a positive expression, my back is killing me, and my ego is crushed.

 

Why do I do this? I think ahead to next week, when I will have to make sense of this experience for my students and their parents. I know I will face questions like: “Why did that other group do so well? All they did was turn, and they didn’t have enough clothes on.” “We bumped into each other and forgot that whole section of our piece and we still got a gold. Were you surprised?” “What did I do wrong in my solo? I only got a silver. My mom thought I deserved a gold.” “Can you order me another costume? I think I left mine at the auditorium.” “Can we go to another competition next weekend?”

 

Yet I remind myself that there were moments that made it all worthwhile. I saw my dancers work together as a cohesive group—almost like a family. I saw a young dancer complete her first solo with a smile the size of Montana. I witnessed the pride of my students as they received a Special Award for Emotional Execution. I received a handmade thank-you card from a 10-year-old who thinks I’m the “best teacher ever!” I laughed with another dance teacher who looked just as stressed as I did, who said she’d send me some music I had been looking for. I got recognition from a group of parents who appreciated my attention to age-appropriate costuming and movement. And at the awards presentation, I listened to my dancers cheer for each other as their number was announced, before they even knew what they had won.

 

And something else will happen next week: I will realize the benefits of competition. My dancers will work a little harder. I will have new ideas and hear professional comments about my students’ performances. The kids will have stories and pictures to share. Like childbirth, the pain will be forgotten.

 

Maybe next year we’ll do Nationals!

 

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