It is exasperation.

The quadruple turn that feels impossible.
The constant belief that it will never be good enough.
The flawless makeup that becomes not so perfect after a performance.

It is ambition.
The fight to work harder than yesterday.
The hours of practice for that two and a half minute long dance.

It is the “Sorry, I have dance” for every activity.
The million pairs of jazz shoes and ripped tan stocking.
The island-looking costumes and the beautiful head pieces.

It is struggle.
The “push a little harder” attitude.
The “I need to practice” and “It can be better”.
The heartbreak of hearing “That’s not good enough”.

It is the supporters.
Those parents that believe.
Those that could not care less.
Those standing ovations from people in the audience.

It is the doubters.
The haters,
the one teacher that believes more than anyone else.
The late nights,
the early mornings.
The dance classes till ten-thirty at night.

It is the responsibility.
The responsibility of not leaving that dance bag
or those fifty dollar shoes.
The balancing of school, family, friends and dance.

It is the end product.
The multitude of hours leading up to that one dance.
The feeling of completion walking off stage.
The “woos” and “go girls”.

It is the love of doing dance everyday.

It is what it is like to be a dancer.