Lilian Schwendener ’25
From the Ashes
It’s a good feeling, when you know your purpose. It’s comforting to know who you are, what you’re meant to do, what you’ll be when you grow up.
I once knew all those things. I don’t now.
*
I was in my dressing room, untying the satin ribbons from my ankles and freeing my feet from my pointe shoes. I had just finished the end of the year recital in Westchester, New York. I was eleven. Still swept up in adrenaline, I changed out of my tutu and into my small, ordinary clothes, sliding into a pair of sandals. I ran down the hall of the auditorium, where my parents waited with a bouquet of roses and beaming smiles; they were standing with my teacher. I was wrapped up in hugs and “congratulations” but not too distracted to notice my ballet teacher’s intentional glance at my mother as they seemed to have quickly ended a conversation when I emerged from the changing room. Ms. Stetson planted a kiss on my cheek and said I performed beautifully. We left. On the way to the car, I asked my mother what she was talking about with Ms. Stetson.
“She thinks you should start dancing in the city,” Mom said, tentatively looking at my father.
My heart skipped a beat. “Why?”
“You are a very talented dancer; you have the ability to do it professionally.” She paused, “She wants you to go to the School of American Ballet.”
That was a fateful day, as it dictated the next twelve years of my life. That was a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I was deemed special, I had talent, I could do something that most kids could not. And from there, I grew used to a life that revolved around the fact that I could do ballet. Extraordinarily well.
*
The funny thing is, this all sounds wonderful, and you might be thinking how lucky I was to feel special and good at something. I guess that was the case for a few weeks up until I auditioned, was accepted, and started at the School of American Ballet—the top, most competitive ballet school in the country. I was twelve the fall that I started; I was joining a class of fifteen other girls. My most memorable day from that year was in my first week; my first class with Ms. Whittle. She looked down at me as I walked in the door, acknowledging that I was new by coldly stating “You’re new,” which wasn’t entirely addressed to me. She didn’t introduce herself but continued to chew her lozenge and started teaching the class. A few minutes in, just as we were about to start a combination, she yelled in my direction. “What’s your name?”
I was shocked, typically in a ballet class the teacher does not speak to you directly. Her tone was aggressive. As I attempted to say the word “Lily” she interrupted me and said in a more angry and accusatory tone,
“Where are you from?”
“I…” stammering.
“I don’t care where you’re from. You’re here now. I don’t care how you’re used to doing things at whatever Dolly Dinkle ballet school you’re coming from. This is the School of American Ballet, and this is how we do things.”
I had no idea why I was being punished or what I had done to be yelled at in front of the entire class. I felt everyone’s eyes on me, and I fought like hell to suppress the tears that wanted to erupt over my bright red cheeks. I was the new kid, the dancer from outside of New York City. I was humiliated by the teacher. I learned very quickly that my time feeling “special” was over.
I endured a very tough transition into the school. But at the end of every day, I commuted back home, exhausted and physically drained, with an inexplicable spark in my soul. My passion for ballet was immense, and consumed me with joy, excitement and determination. The spark became a flame, and the flame grew with every class, rehearsal and performance; and only ballet could keep that fire lit inside of me. The physicality, precision and beauty of it excited me, energized me and gave me wings.
*
The remainder of my time at the School of American Ballet was very similar to how my first week went. There was a constant tug-of-war between feeling extraordinary and feeling worthless. These teachers held every single insecurity of mine in their hand. They had the ability to dangle appreciation and praise in front of me and rip it away at any second. Every day was a gamble of whether you’d receive attention or be neglected. It was a form of psychological abuse, and an effective way to manipulate the young fragile minds of aspiring ballerinas. A mindset was born at SAB: my entire worth is valued by how well I dance; I am equivalent to nothing outside of ballet. I always had to look, dance, act, be however and whoever they wanted. I accepted this for my entire eight years at the school, because at the end of this hellish tunnel shone my purpose in life: The chance to be a professional ballet dancer and dance in a company.
*
After years of countless emotional and mental beatdowns and unfaltering persistence, we made it to our final year of school. There are only a few jobs out there in the ballet world, and my classmates were the most qualified ballerinas in the country. Our classroom had turned into a messy battlefield of competition. We had all sacrificed so much by our last year, and the dream of getting a job was just around the corner. Unfortunately, a dark cloud loomed over us. We all knew there were only a couple jobs to be filled that year, and more than half of us will find ourselves without a job and with nowhere to dance.
I kept feeding my fire, I was not going to let a shadow of doubt dampen my passion.
*
It was the middle of audition season in 2019. I was in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, in the changing room. I had just completed a private audition for the company there. I was offered a trainee position on the spot, which excited me, except for the fact that the first year was completely unpaid. However, still beaming at the chance to dance with a company, I ran to the bathroom to text my mom the good news. I was in my private stall, blocking out the sounds of shuffling pointe shoes under the door. I took out my phone, but suddenly I heard the Gmail woosh and saw a notification at the top of my screen. After instantly seeing who it was from, a different ballet company I was dreaming about, I clicked the email in a nanosecond. I read the subject, then read the first line, my lungs frozen in excitement, then the last line which read:
“Congratulations! Sign the contract below.”
*
A year later, I was working harder than ever before. It was early spring of 2020, and I was rehearsing many ballets with my company, including Petipa’s Le Corsair, Dante Sonata by Frederick Ashton and three different roles in Ashton’s full-length version of Romeo and Juliet. I was dancing from 9 to 7 most days, rushing to rehearsals, scarfing down protein bars as substitutes for meals, and even crashed my car out of sheer exhaustion. There was not a single day to breathe or recuperate. What once felt like a joy turned into work. My body was growing weaker, and my mental health deteriorated along with it.
*
On the night of March 16th, we got an email informing us of a mandatory company meeting the following morning. At this point, COVID-19 was becoming a major concern in the country. Rumors were going around about ballet schools and companies being given two-week breaks for safety. I reread the email again and let my mind wonder over every possible outcome. What if we got a two-week break? What would happen to our performances? Will we still have to rehearse tomorrow?
I was anticipating something big, but what?
After a restless night, I got up, made a bowl of cinnamon oatmeal with chia seeds, and drank my hot mug of coffee silently. I drove to work, entered Studio One, and joined the fifty other dancers. We all sat on the floor, like children, looking up at our director awaiting his instructions. I listened to him speak about the general state of the virus and how other companies had reacted to it. After two minutes he came to the crux of his speech.
“We won’t be continuing this season. Our season is cancelled.” Our season is cancelled. You mean we don’t have to come in tomorrow or next week…but not until the fall? I replayed the words in my head over and over. It took me weeks to realize what I felt in that exact moment: Relief.
The mental demons that were planted in me all those years ago no longer hid in the shadows; they slowly crept out and began to dance into the fire, slowly overtaking it. They took control of my passion, and swallowed it. I realized that the familiar fire that once blazed inside me had indeed burnt out.
Ballet was my superpower and my kryptonite. It had the ability to make me fly, but it turned me into the most insecure and unhappy version of myself. It became time for me to make the greatest sacrifice I ever made for ballet. I let go of everything that brought me security. I let go of the only physical proof that my childhood and early adulthood hadn’t been for nothing. I said goodbye to the fire that used to fuel me with passion, excitement and inspiration; I had to accept that it wasn’t coming back.
I quit.
Today I’m still picking up the ashes that ballet left behind. On my own terms, in my own time, I will put these ashes to rest and build a new fire. It takes skill and persistence to tend to a fire for a decade, and these skills can be used in other passions and purposes.
I secretly kept many embers from my experiences. They live within me. They still glow in the dark. I will discover who I am, who I’m meant to be, what I’ll be when I grow up.