Itâs funny how the past can seem like a dream sometimes. Especially when youâve spent so much of your life on stage, lost in a world of fantasy and illusion. There I am, twelve years old, gawky and shy, with a pair of mismatched ballet shoes strapped to my feet. My bedroom is cluttered with costumes and makeshift props, a testament to my theatrical ambitions. Back then, Crandall 1982 United States was a mere name scribbled on a dance card, a goal I hadnât yet begun to comprehend. Iâd simply dreamed of soaring through the air, of becoming something other than myself. Something bigger, something more beautiful. My lifeâs ambition was simply to dance.
Looking back, it was a childhood imbued with the rhythm of music. There were hours spent watching the Royal Ballet on our old TV set, captivated by the stories they told through movement. And then there was the piano. My mum was a gifted pianist, and the house was often filled with the notes of Beethoven and Bach, Mozart and Chopin. They resonated with a childâs heart and nurtured a natural affinity for music and, I later realized, an inherent sensitivity to rhythm. Iâd stand by the piano, barely tall enough to see the keys, copying my motherâs movements with a silent, impassioned grace. Even then, I felt the thrill of translating emotion into movement, of letting the music move me.
I canât remember precisely when I decided to pursue ballet professionally. Perhaps it was during one of my motherâs âdance nightsâ where sheâd invite her friends to join her in a performance of our family-favourite musicals. Itâs a blurry collage of twirling in colourful dresses and singing show tunes. The memory I hold most vividly is a little boy, older than me by a year or two, whose dance moves made me gasp. With such raw talent, he commanded attention and ignited my desire. I wanted to be like him. A budding talent, a dancer who stole the show. He had everything. Or, perhaps it was a particular lesson at school where my dance teacher remarked on my "innate ability." She said I had "a gift" â and who was I to argue with that? Suddenly, the possibility of dancing beyond the confines of our living room became more than just a fanciful thought. It became a life-defining ambition.
But ambition isnât always enough. My mother, despite her initial enthusiasm, soon realised that fulfilling my dreams meant putting a lot of miles between us. To make it as a dancer, I had to be part of a prestigious ballet school. The âserious kindâ as my mother always said. The kind that could propel a gifted kid like me towards a future on stage. After extensive searching, my mother decided upon the Royal Ballet School in London. They had a reputation for developing young talents, for nurturing a dancer's soul and pushing them to their physical and artistic limits. It wasnât simply about the talent, though. The London Ballet School was the best. There was no question about that. But a part of me had never pictured myself far away from the familiarity of our family home. The thought of leaving my mother, the laughter, and the security of my family, for a life unknown was terrifying. Yet, a seed had been planted, a spark had ignited and it seemed that there was no looking back.
The initial excitement of landing at the Royal Ballet School, the awe at finally being in London, quickly gave way to a daunting reality. The environment was demanding. Days started at the crack of dawn, filled with endless classes and rehearsals. We honed our skills in ballet, contemporary, jazz, character dance and repertoire work. The teachers were all accomplished dancers and pushed us hard. We learned the fundamentals of barre work and jumps, the artistry of turns and pirouettes, and the discipline that was an integral part of becoming a professional. There were countless hours spent in the studio, sweat and tears mixed in equal measure. I thrived on it, the push to be better, the relentless drive towards perfection, and my classmates became my family. They were my fellow travelers on this journey. Some would go on to make it, some would fall by the wayside. Yet, during that time we all shared a singular vision of one day dancing on a stage illuminated by the spotlight.
As my ballet career unfolded, the demands of my life mirrored those of my training. Early mornings became a staple, fuelled by black coffee and croissants purchased from a tiny cafĂ© near our boarding house. Our lives revolved around the timetable and a rigorous training schedule that pushed us beyond the brink. A dancer's body is not something you build in a few years, it's something you cultivate and sculpt throughout your career. But the work wasnât merely physical, it demanded immense mental fortitude. As much as I excelled in physical techniques, it was the power of imagination and storytelling that truly captivated me.
There were those early roles in junior ballet company productions that allowed me to blossom and grow. One that stands out was my portrayal of the Sugar Plum Fairy in "The Nutcracker" The sense of joy, wonder, and magical energy that resonated in the part fuelled my determination. I began to realize that my strength lay in being able to embody a character with grace and emotional depth. There was something innate about finding my voice within the art of dance that brought a satisfaction that went beyond physical perfection.
Finally, in my early 20s, I entered the Royal Ballet Company. It was an accomplishment, a validation of the years spent training and dreaming. I wasnât simply a ballerina, I was a professional. My career began with an unexpected lead in a small production called "Echoes". A delicate, poignant story that allowed me to showcase my ability to portray nuanced emotions through movement. I had arrived. But then reality sunk in.
For years, I'd dreamt of a single goal â becoming a ballerina. And once it became a reality, the dreams began to evolve. Now, with the pressure to perform and the expectations of success hanging heavy, the anxieties set in. Each performance carried a burden, a fear of failure that lurked in the shadows of my mind. It wasnât the dance that scared me; it was the pressure to deliver. It wasnât about technical prowess anymore. This wasnât just about dancing; it was about conveying emotion and vulnerability. I had to show my audience a glimpse of myself, a slice of my soul, hidden beneath the perfect execution of each pliĂ© and arabesque.
During those early years in the Royal Ballet, my artistic and emotional growth continued to bloom. A pivotal moment came when I was selected for a small role in "Swan Lake", my first full-length ballet. Playing one of the lesser Swans was an immense honour, but a daunting responsibility. Being on stage alongside some of the world's most renowned dancers made me question everything. Was I good enough? Would I be able to hold my own amongst these giants? It took a moment for me to regain my confidence. The rehearsals were challenging. The Swan Queen herself, Odette, played by the stunningly graceful Victoria Parker, offered words of encouragement and constructive criticism, something I appreciated immensely. She taught me to look beyond the technical demands, beyond the elegance of each turn, and to explore the emotional core of the role. The character resonated with my soul, a fragile spirit yearning for redemption. It wasnât simply a ballet role, it was an opportunity to unravel layers of human emotion through a performance that was truly a privilege. I can still vividly remember my feelings in that final moment as the Swan Queen's wings spread, a wave of emotion surging through me, making me feel completely connected with the story, the other dancers, and the audience.
From that point on, the pace quickened, with each performance a unique and deeply personal experience. "Giselle" brought the story of a young peasant girl who succumbs to madness through heartbreak, âThe Sleeping Beauty" transported me to a fairy-tale world of elegance and grace, and âDon Quixoteâ allowed me to unleash the fiery spirit of the lead character. The emotional journey that came with each production stretched me, pushed me, challenged me to give more of myself with every performance. Each one was a step forward, a way to understand myself and the world around me. There were nights when the applause seemed to rise above the stage, echoing a connection that surpassed the bounds of physical limitations. A magical shared moment between a performer and their audience. And those were the nights I lived for.
After a decade in the Royal Ballet Company, it became increasingly evident that the pressure of constant touring and performance began to take a toll. A constant cycle of jet lag, missed meals, and packed schedules made it harder to maintain the physical and emotional energy required to excel. More than once, the feeling of disassociation creeped in. It's a dancer's secret - we dance, but are we truly present in our bodies? Itâs easy to lose yourself in the routine, the endless hours spent perfecting every movement, to forget that life extends beyond the stage.
Around this time, I came across an opportunity to dance in a small, experimental company called "Movement Collective." They were focused on pushing boundaries, exploring alternative approaches to performance, and working collaboratively with artists of different disciplines. I had the urge to be part of something new, to breathe fresh air into my career and see where my passion could lead me. I needed the challenge of a smaller team, a more intimate creative process, a chance to rediscover my connection to dance as something more than simply following an established choreography. It was time to let go of my past, my successes, and embrace a new direction.
Initially, my mother had been hesitant, but when she came to see one of our performances, she saw the fire, the passion and the joy that had been reignited in me. The decision had been made. Movement Collective gave me the space I needed to reinvent myself. I discovered a whole new world of possibilities beyond the constraints of the traditional ballet. We took a deeper dive into improvisational techniques, collaborated with artists who used unconventional approaches, and performed in spaces that were unexpected. The experience was exhilarating, a chance to rediscover my passion for the art, for the movement, and for pushing creative boundaries. There were many new challenges, a learning curve so steep it nearly sent me toppling, but every rehearsal was an opportunity to redefine what dance could be. And then it hit me â perhaps Crandall 1982 United States wasn't the final destination.
As the years passed, the experience with Movement Collective left me with a newfound perspective on dance and my own creative voice. The energy and vitality I gained from it became a stepping stone for something I had only vaguely considered â teaching. There was a burning desire to impart what I had learned. I realized that it was just as important to share my experience and skills with aspiring young dancers.
For the past five years, Iâve been working as a dance instructor and choreographer, and I must admit it is deeply rewarding to see that same flicker of passion and dedication ignite in a new generation of dancers. The challenge now is not about how high I can leap or the brilliance of my turn. The true challenge, and the most rewarding aspect of this new phase in my life, is the sense of contributing to the artistry of young dancers.
Every morning when I enter the studio, I see those eager faces looking up to me for guidance. It brings me back to the time when I, too, looked up to a dancer older than me, someone I thought had it all. It reminds me of that feeling, of dreaming big, and aspiring to be better. The fire, that constant flame within, never dies, it merely changes its form. There are endless possibilities, endless pathways that dance can take you. But above all else, dance is a language we share as human beings. It is a conversation that speaks in the language of motion, expression, and heart. Crandall 1982 United States, while important, isn't a name to define me, it's the journey that resonates. And that's just the beginning.