I always loved movement as a kid. Sure, I wasn’t the most coordinated, and I often got a little intimidated by group games, but I loved dancing. I did disco dance to silver level, ballet to grade five, and even tried my hand at tap dance. My weekly lessons brought me joy, made me feel good, and meant I spent many a Saturday side stage at village fairs, ballet pumps on, waiting for my music cue.
That was, until the age of around ten, when I started to feel self-conscious in a leotard. I vividly remember lying in bed one night, having flipped through one of my Mum’s magazines. There was an entire six-page spread dedicated to rating female celebrities' bodies from best to worst. Convinced that my body was “too big” and on the “worst” end of the completely arbitrary - but seriously damaging nonetheless - scale, I quit ballet for good, hanging up my pointe shoes and retreating into myself.
