There’s this misguided notion that everyone with self-described “mommy issues” has a rocky relationship with their own mother. However, this is not always the case – for example, I have mommy issues and a great relationship with my mother! It’s my ballet teacher who really fucked me up.
When I was younger, I begged my mom to let me do ballet and, being the kind, encouraging, and supportive mother that she was, she signed me right up. Ironically, her kindness and support is where all of my mommy issues began, because it’s in those ballet classes that I was introduced – sorry, subjected – to Miss Cheryl.
Eight-year-old me could not comprehend the depth of cruelty someone wearing a pink tutu could possess, and I still can’t understand it today.
I went into those classes with relatively high self-esteem, an uncontained zest for life, and a deep passion for dance. I left those classes eight years later with seven broken toes, an intense aversion to mirrors, and the resolution to never dance again.
On day one, Miss Cheryl broke me down, ground me into dust, then did two perfect pirouettes over my remains, all while critiquing my posture. She then proceeded to do the same exact thing every Monday through Friday for the next eight years.
My anxiety from those classes got so bad that I even had a dream where Miss Cheryl cornered me in the dance studio and said, “I will feast on your innards, then leave the rest of your remains for the crows.” Or, wait, I think that actually happened?
It was like she was a nightmare crafted out of my most secret fears, a bloodhound trained to sniff out my deepest insecurities, which was the fourth position of my arms.
Throughout it all, my mom and I’s relationship only got better – I never told her about my problems with dance, because I knew she’d make me quit, and I had a weird, deep-seated desire to plié so good that Miss Cheryl would finally be proud of me.
My mom was always proud of me, so I was never worried about winning her approval.
Even now, as a 28-year-old who hasn’t danced competitively in 12 years, I still believe, deep in my heart, that one day I’ll execute a petit allegro combination so perfect that Miss Cheryl will feel it in her soul and write me an email apologizing for everything she said to me over the years. Until then, I’ll just have to accept the bountiful love and pride my mom has always freely given – which is good enough, I guess. For now.
