Picture an introvert’s hell – and I don’t mean big crowds. Instead, there are three little girls accompanied by their moms, who are looking at you expectantly, wanting you to teach all six of them how to dance. Their eyes are like stage lights that don’t stop shining at you, following your every move and catching every little blemish and imperfection. This stage is more terrifying than performing in any competition; the parents could be harsher than any competition judges. The kids are dead silent when you ask how they are. One bursts into tears when their mom lets go of their hand – fat tears and ugly sobs as they
plead for their mom. Tough crowd today, I guess. When they leave the class, you breathe a sigh of relief until two minutes later, when it’s time to be performance-ready and do it all again.

The first time I ever taught, I was substituting for one of the other dance teachers. When she asked me if I was available, I happily said yes, and my email was flooded with Spotify playlists and 15-step sub plans for each class to get through. So, on Saturday, at 8:30 a.m., I taught my first dance class all by myself. The first class was a parent-and-child duo class. Something about teaching parents to dance with their kids as a 16-year-old newbie teacher felt so intimidating. For one of the dances, I played the song “A Thousand Baby Doughnuts,” handed each pair a hula hoop, and exclaimed, “let’s dance with our big doughnut!” Without realizing my fatal mistake, which is that handing a two-year-old a hula hoop made it the prime item to throw at me. The mother’s face went tomato-red, blubbering apologies as I plastered on a fake grin and told her it was all good. All in a day’s work, I figured.

The classes I taught next summarized the whole situation: you never get peace and quiet. Parents drop their kids off and exit the building, leaving me all alone to teach kids who want nothing more than to do anything but dance. I look to the assistant, wondering if the kids were always this rowdy or if I was the one causing a disturbance. The studio is filled with impossible levels of noise: tap shoes, music, and shouts of children. They hang on the barre – something I knew was dangerous from personal experience. I barely managed to keep them in line for an hour, persuading them to behave with promises of freeze dance and Disney princess stickers at the end of class.

As you finish one class, you barely get to blink before a new set of kids are suddenly at your door, here for the lessons their parents paid for. It’s a challenge to see if you can maintain the kids’ attention for the duration of the class. Many people wonder why I bothered to teach when I’m already busy enough with dance as it is: practices, performances, and competitions alike. Who wants to deal with crying, whining toddlers, on top of the task of teaching them to dance? But performing let me show my passion – teaching helped me spread it. Having my own classes to lead helped me realize that I don’t only dance for myself, but also for the little girl in the doorway with aspirations just as big as mine. The girl that foolishly hung on the barre with her friends would’ve looked at me with wonder in her eyes, and I can’t help but think I’m making her proud.