Aubrey H.

Photography by Meg Kelly

If you’re reading this, remember your “why.”

I’ve been a dancer for most of my life, starting in late elementary school. From that moment on, dance was a constant in my life, even through college. I spent most of my time in the studio. Between rehearsals and school, I didn’t have much time for anything else, but I never minded. It was worth it because I loved dance, and I couldn’t imagine who I would be without it.

I am so grateful for everything dance has given me; it has shaped me far beyond the walls of any studio. Dance has given me family, a second home, and an escape from a sometimes very hectic world around me.

Dance has also taught me the importance of independence, discipline, hard work, and determination — traits that I have always carried proudly. But somewhere along my journey, knowing that’s what people saw, it slowly became what I demanded of myself.

My passion somehow turned into a pursuit of perfection. I wasn’t happy unless things went right. Whether it be a performance, audition, or practice, I was constantly chasing perfection. My worth and value started to be tied to an impossible standard, even beyond the dance studio. I started condemning mistakes in every aspect of my life. I let letters, grades, and others’ opinions determine how I felt about myself. I let outcomes decide my worth. And when I inevitably fell short, it felt like failure, not just to myself, but to my coaches, teachers, family, and all who supported me. This kind of thinking drained me physically, emotionally, and mentally.

As I’ve grown to reflect on who I am, especially as a dancer, I’ve remembered that I didn’t start my sport because of the satisfaction it gave my achiever mindset. I’ve spent years dedicated to my sport because I love it. My “why” was never perfection; it was the joy that dance gave me. I love to dance. I love being able to do what I love with the people I love.

With all this being said, it’s taken me years to learn that my sport or best qualities may define a piece of me, but most certainly not the whole story. And the same goes for you: your sport, your art, your talent is a part of you, but it doesn't define all of you.

So, if you’re reading this:

You deserve to fuel your body and rest.

You deserve to give yourself grace.

You deserve the chance to make mistakes.

You deserve to surround yourself with people who love you despite your mistakes.

You deserve to celebrate progress, even if the result isn’t what you wanted.

And, of course, you deserve to enjoy your sport because you love it.

Your sport is a meaningful part of your journey, but that’s exactly what it is: a part of you. It doesn’t define your entire identity. And once you’re able to recognize that, you can start living for the why again, not just the how well. And that will always be enough.

Aubrey H., Boston College

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