I’m glad I quit dance.

I left the stressful competition mornings behind me. I no longer feel the remorse of getting into fights with my mom for no good reason, and I lost the sense of dread that ruled my mind before going on stage for awards. I stopped taking “front and center” for granted and found solace in the back of the room.

I happily said goodbye to bursting into tears after having a bump in my slicked-back ponytail and feeling insecure in my leotard before class. I am not afraid of the way pink tights make my thighs look rounder or how ballet flats would emphasize the lack of an arch in my foot. I wear tights as a fashion accessory instead of a dress code necessity.

I haven't woken up in my leotard after a late night of dance classes in a while. I stopped going to school in high ponytails to be prepared for the night of rehearsals ahead of me. Instead of spending money on new hairnets and bobby pins, I get to buy myself a nice coffee or a new dress to wear to school in the spring. My hairline is even growing back.

I enjoy going to pedicures, and don’t have to remind my nail technicians to leave my callouses alone. I get to wear new sneakers without fear of opening the blisters rubbed raw from my pointe shoes. I can wear skirts without being embarrassed of the bruises that spotted my knees from floor work.

I’m glad I got hours upon hours of my free time back. I got to discover my love for the small things in life, like the different places my cat sleeps throughout the afternoon to chase the setting sun, or the way my brother laughs and how it never changes even after hours of playing the same video games. I look at the holiday season and think about ice skating and cozy movies, rather than all the roles I wasn’t cast as in The Nutcracker.

I wear hairspray to make sure my curls hold while I go out to dinner with my friends, and I see my old leotard as a cute body suit instead of a mirror of my body issues. I am allowed to dye my hair in fun colors and cut it to my heart's desire without worrying about what my teacher has to say about it—or getting it into the “perfect” ballet bun. I can paint my nails any color I want and wear jewelry that isn’t fake plastic rocks that turn my ears green.

My heart, once battered by the girls who ditched me after rehearsal and the teachers who taught me everything not to be, was able to feel full again. I can go downtown to my favorite pizza place and not be reminded of all the times I sat at the end of the table, unspoken to for an hour. I pass by the street my old studio sits at, unchanged after six years of my absence. It no longer makes me feel sick to my stomach.

After six years, I don’t spend hours crying over the mistakes I made in rehearsal anymore.

Actually, I reacquainted myself with marley floors. I forgave them for the tears they left in my toes and the skin they pulled off my knees. I made friends with the mirror once again, saying “hi” every time I turned my head to spot and paying attention to every detail of movement they caught for me.

I get excited to put on my new dance pants and pick out a top to match. As I stand in front of my mirror with my hair in a tight, slicked-back ponytail, I don’t see an egg staring at me. I grab my tap shoes and brush the dust off, forgetting how they wronged me when I fractured my ankle.

I am not scared of the girls who are older than me, nor the girls who can kick their legs higher than me. I am not afraid to step into the audition room, and my heart doesn’t sink at the thought of getting cut.

I show my friends my dance videos—better yet, they come to my shows. I still ask my mom what she thought of every dance, making sure to press her on if she saw me mess up. I look at the pictures from the performance with pride instead of embarrassment. I am proud to be a dancer.

I sign up for every opportunity I can get. I think about classes I can take with nearby studios without fear of being a “studio hopper.” I put myself out there for things I never considered before.

I look forward to getting better. I want to be stronger. And, I don’t kick myself for being inflexible; I don’t strive for perfection either.

I know I’ve grown. I move with every inch of my body and every particle of energy that swarms from my head to my toes. I feel the music as it tells my feet what to do and I let my heart follow.

I don’t dance because I feel like I have to anymore. I dance because it brings me happiness.

So, six years later, I’m glad I quit dancing.

Because quitting helped me find my love for it again.