I was born in 1993, the year Nirvana released *In Utero*, and the same year that Princess Diana gave birth to Prince Harry. These were momentous moments in the wider world, but for me, life began in a much smaller world: my small hometown in America, where my parents were convinced that every baby was a born ballerina. They must have known, somehow, that my life would become synonymous with dance.
My mum and dad, both amateur dancers, used to take turns teaching me in the living room, turning it into a makeshift dance studio with makeshift barre, mirrors, and music. Even if my tiny self was too young to understand the technicalities of an arabesque or the grace of a fifth port de bras, I absorbed the magic. My eyes widened with wonder as I tried to emulate my parents' movements, each pirouette feeling like an exhilarating journey. It was like learning a secret language, one that only those with a passion for ballet could comprehend.
As a child, I always dreamt of being a prima ballerina, dreaming of dancing on grand stages and capturing hearts with each arabesque, each jeté. My room became my sanctuary, the walls covered with posters of the legendary ballerinas, my heroines who paved the way. My idol was undoubtedly Sylvie Guillem. Her breathtaking artistry and raw emotion resonated with me, fuelling my ambition. My eyes were wide with wonder when, as a young teenager, I was fortunate enough to see her perform in New York City.
When I turned ten, I started formal lessons. The dance studio was a whole new universe, a magical place filled with the delicate thuds of pointe shoes, the vibrant aroma of rosin, and the whispered murmurs of ballet. Every hour spent there felt like a pilgrimage. Every plié, every tendu, every tour was a step towards my dream. I pushed myself hard, my heart and mind locked on one single goal - to dance like those on those posters, those figures of inspiration who taught me what dedication meant.
However, the world of ballet can be brutal, demanding years of rigorous training, sacrifice, and dedication. My adolescence became a tightrope walk between pushing my body beyond its limits and nurturing my love for dance. Injuries became a familiar foe. There were times I thought I wouldnât be able to walk, let alone dance. The frustration of seeing my body betray me, unable to keep up with my aspirations, felt unbearable. There were countless days where tears were the only language I knew. But I always had the support of my parents, and my dance teachers, who reminded me why I was dancing and why my body, while vulnerable, was also a magical instrument.
It was at fourteen, just like many aspiring ballerinas, that I had to leave my comfort zone. I left the US for the more structured environment of the Royal Ballet School, White Lodge. This move was pivotal. Living on my own in London, far from my family, tested my independence. The atmosphere was different; a new language, a new city, and an intensified training schedule - but it also broadened my horizons. Being surrounded by students with such talent, and driven to achieve, pushed me to strive for more.
At White Lodge, I honed my skills and absorbed every bit of knowledge and wisdom. It was like being in a hot house; a cocoon of nurturing creativity. Every dancer who has passed through its doors will share similar feelings. We were all driven by the dream of achieving professional excellence, the pinnacle being a place in the Royal Ballet. We were immersed in a tradition stretching back to the 19th century. And my dedication to the form was tested every single day.
My commitment, combined with talent, saw me through my White Lodge years, where I flourished in a system that fostered both artistic flair and a meticulous work ethic. We studied under the best; some of the legendary dancers in ballet, whose names still echo in the world of dance. These included Antoinette Sibley, Dame Merle Park, and Dame Monica Mason - whose own careers gave them the skills to nurture talent and, ultimately, to build our careers.
My White Lodge years werenât without moments of vulnerability and doubt, those moments when my body would ache, and the future seemed so far away. There were times when I considered throwing in the towel. There were times I missed my family and longed for the simplicity of childhood, back in the safety of my home town, and my childhood bedroom. The training was brutal and relentless, but also rewarding and I gained friendships I carry to this day. I learned, most of all, the power of determination and self-belief, as much as the rigorous steps of ballet, but the discipline of those years will remain with me for the rest of my life.
And finally, that magical day arrived, the moment every young dancer dreams of: a contract to join The Royal Ballet, after all those years of dedication, those years of stretching my physical and emotional limitations, and overcoming injury, that dream became my reality.
To join the Royal Ballet, to dance in front of audiences that fill the Covent Garden stage, was a validation that still gives me chills. But joining the Royal Ballet wasnât a destination. It was just a new start; a new set of challenges to push me towards greater things. To dance in a company with such rich heritage was to become a part of something bigger than me. I absorbed the stories behind each piece we danced, a deep dive into the works of Diaghilev and Balanchine, and choreographers such as Ashton, and the legendary Petipa. I trained, pushed and stretched myself, but I also enjoyed those quiet moments of reflection when I stood backstage in my ballet shoes and looked at the vast expanse of the stage and felt that magic that had inspired me all those years before.
The years with The Royal Ballet were both inspiring and, of course, demanding. The choreography, demanding physically and artistically, was constantly testing my skills, but this relentless demand was exactly what I needed. It was during those years that I made real friendships, ones that have survived the intensity of being on tour, of demanding performances, and, more importantly, the camaraderie that only ballet can provide.
When I think about my time with The Royal Ballet, the most magical memory I have is the performance of âThe Sleeping Beautyâ in London. We were performing the original choreography by Petipa. I felt like I had stepped into a fairytale; an exquisite tableau of choreography, a magnificent story of beauty and courage, which, once we reached the end of that long run, I was emotionally spent, as though I had lived through a real fairytale myself.
Over the years, I became known for my expressiveness in dance. I was told my movements told a story, and that they carried emotion that transcended language. The power of physical expression to communicate without words always excited me. My performance style attracted critics and reviewers who found themselves enthralled by a fresh and engaging style of performance.
However, all ballerinas must eventually take stock of their futures. While ballet may offer moments of exquisite artistic perfection, the toll of the profession is relentless. At the age of 27, after a remarkable twelve-year run at The Royal Ballet, I took the hard decision to retire. This wasn't the end of the story, it was just the beginning of another. I had trained for years and been fortunate enough to be successful. What next?
To retire from the profession that had defined you is, to some, an unthinkable concept. It's the unknown that often fills us with fear, but for me, retirement from dancing brought a strange feeling of freedom and opportunity. A freedom to explore. A new path.
During my time in ballet, I had begun to experiment with writing. It began as a way to channel the emotional intensity of being a ballerina, to explore the creative side of my being. At first, it was simply jotting down thoughts and observations about dance, and as I progressed I realized my love of the language was becoming more serious.
Once I retired, writing became a new source of joy and exploration, taking me down new roads, paths I never dreamed Iâd tread. I found I could communicate, just as well as I could with my body, through language. To combine both art forms â ballet and the written word â brought an intense sense of satisfaction, and has allowed me to connect with people in new ways. The audience for words and expression seemed larger than the stage of Covent Garden, which both excited and unnerved me.
My first novel was a labour of love, a testament to a life in ballet, written with a sincerity that many readers found appealing. Itâs about a young, aspiring dancer, like the younger version of myself, and, despite the fictional setting, many have suggested that I borrowed freely from my own life. This was never my intention. But it shows the power of art; to tap into deep emotions and to inspire and influence. This book was a huge step. A major turning point in my life.
After my first novel was published, it was met with great enthusiasm. This propelled me forward. Writing brought me both a great deal of pleasure and challenge. It's an intensely rewarding process, but sometimes a lonely one too, as any writer will attest. My latest work, a biography, brings together my two loves â dance and storytelling â to celebrate a career that continues to inspire me; that of Sylvie Guillem.
There were moments I almost lost my way. But writing allowed me to express all the vulnerability and fragility of a ballerinaâs life, but also its great strength. I feel the same passion in my writing today, as I did in ballet, and Iâm determined to do it justice. Like so many things, ballet provided me with the discipline that now informs my writing. That constant drive to improve, to express. But most of all, a way to inspire and to connect, a way to tell my story, but also, the stories of others.
My biography of Sylvie Guillem, Dancing on the Edge, captures the woman behind the icon. This project took me to new depths; the sheer dedication and talent, but also the sacrifices made in the relentless pursuit of perfection, were as compelling as the story of my own life. As I learned about Sylvie Guillemâs own journey, the emotional intensity she possessed mirrored my own experiences. This brought me face to face with the emotional challenges, the intense focus, and the personal sacrifice that are at the heart of such a demanding art form, one that calls for everything youâve got.
My hope, when I embarked upon this writing project, was to bring to the fore those qualities that made Sylvie Guillem, so special, a dancer who has inspired countless generations of dancers. She possessed, even more so, the ability to connect directly with her audience. And this was an element that struck a deep chord in me as I worked on this biography, a feeling I also hope I possess. To communicate through a common language of physical and emotional expression.
When I first went to see Sylvie Guillem dance, at a young age, I was filled with a sense of awe. As I was researching this book, interviewing those who knew her, and pouring over years of footage, my sense of wonder increased. Her style was innovative, daring. It wasnât always universally loved, and, yet she had the confidence and ability to create and interpret dances in ways that captivated audiences around the globe. She set herself apart from her peers. I am inspired by the fearless artist who forged her own path, a dance artist who had such a profound impact on the world of ballet.
This biography of Sylvie Guillem, her struggles, and her achievements has been, for me, a labour of love. It's a deeply personal exploration into her remarkable journey that combines research, interviews, and the creative flair of my own narrative voice. For every dancer, especially one such as myself who trained with the same ambition and tenacity, the story of Sylvie Guillem serves as an important touchstone; an inspiration that, even after retirement from the stage, will stay with me as I move forward into another creative adventure.
There have been challenges, of course. There are always challenges for those who pursue their creative visions. There were moments of doubt, of course. The desire to have it all: a fulfilling life in dance, the joy of performance, the physical and artistic fulfillment that every ballerina dreams of; and, yet to face up to the sacrifices, the intensity and the demand on your body and mind that are so prevalent.
When I look back on my journey, from small town America, and, to those magical, if daunting days at the Royal Ballet School, White Lodge, and then to my years on the stage with The Royal Ballet, my time there still echoes in my life and continues to inspire my creative drive. These formative experiences, as many dancers will attest, provided me with a foundation in resilience, strength and the ability to persevere when the odds seemed insurmountable. But to pursue my career in writing brings another sense of purpose, to use words as a powerful tool to connect and communicate; just as important as dance itself. And now, I look to the future with the same drive and passion I felt in those days, when as a child, I first imagined myself on the stage, and the exhilaration I experienced the first time I danced, not only on the stage of Covent Garden, but also on the dance floor of my family living room. And in both environments, that magical quality of dance continued to weave its way into my life and into the creative art of writing. Itâs why I can safely say, without any trace of regret or hesitation: that dance, my first love, will forever be a part of me, and I know I can always tap into that inspiration and energy that fuels me to write and to continue, even now, to tell stories.