The studio mirror shows me a body that can't hold the lines it used to, and every morning warm-up now starts with a quiet inventory of what still hurts. Dance is the only language I've ever really spoken, the way I know who I am. I'm standing at the edge of a question I've dreaded my whole life: who am I when I can no longer dance?
More people experience this than they realize.
Your body is aging out of the only art you have ever known, and you are grieving who you are without it.
If this sounds familiar, the Library can help you find the bigger picture.