“Keep your core tight! Chin up! Toes pointed!” My voice projects all around the room as I stroll along the line of dancers at the barre. Each of them flow through the new positions as the music guides them along. My eyes are peeled for corrections that need to be made.

I never dreamt of being a ballet teacher, but it just sort of happened for me. After years and years of training to be the best in the field, my dreams of making it were crushed after a career ending injury. I never danced again, and it broke something in me.

Luckily, I had a great support system around me and they helped me get back on my feet—figuratively and literally. My old teacher and mentor ended up retiring at the studio I had trained at since I was 6 years old. It just made sense for me to take over. It’s been 3 years since and I’ve fallen in love with the art of ballet all over again. Even if I’ve sworn to never put myself in the dancers shoes again. I’ll lead them instead.

“It’s sloppy! Precision, people! Come on!” My hands start to clap along with the eight count that’s imbedded in all of our heads. “Relevé, passé! Tendu, plié!” I yell out the combination of their positions over and over until it’s burned in their brains.

Or at least until they can get it right. These are my highest ranked dancers, they shouldn’t be struggling like this.

I walk down the line again, taking note of ever twitch in their toes, flinch in their spines, and bend of their legs. It all has to be perfect. Occasionally, I’ll stop by a specific dancer and stretch their legs up farther, knowing they can, but they’re being lazy. Everyone keeps a straight face, despite the pain. It’s how they were trained to be.

When I walk up to you on the barre, I step behind your frame. One of my hands finds purchase under your arm and raises it straight out, keeping it pointed. Fingertips trailing away, they shape the curve of you until they reach your stomach. When my other hand finds the small of your back, I use both to straighten your spine.

“Align your hips,” I all but whisper into your ear. And when my hand grazes up from your stomach, dancing along your leotard until I can hook a knuckle under your jaw, your breath catches. “Chin up.”

When I force my hands to leave your warmth, I feel the absence deep in my bones. It’s wrong and crossing a line, but it’s something I can’t deny. You are my favorite dancer.

After stepping away, the feeling lingers. Enough for me to call out, “Take a five for water!” Even though the break is really for me to get my head on straight.