hovered anxiously over scorecards, my mom was the one in the corner of the dressing room, gently rubbing my frozen shoulders, handing me slices of orange, and whispering, "Just dance for yourself, sweet pea. Just have fun! The judges don't matter, only YOU matter!”
I did not realize how lucky I was to have her for my Mom…
My mom wasn't just a "dance mom" in the stereotypical sense; she was my quiet anchor in a high-pressure world. While other mothers hovered anxiously over scorecards, my mom was the one in the corner of the dressing room, gently rubbing my frozen shoulders, handing me slices of orange, and whispering, "Just dance for yourself, sweet pea. Just have fun! The judges don't matter, only YOU matter!”
She was there for every blister, every torn pair of tights, and every moment of self-doubt. When I finally earned my first pair of pointe shoes at age twelve, she cried harder than I did. She spent hours sitting on the living room floor with a thick needle and heavy pink thread, meticulously sewing the ribbons and elastics onto my shoes so they would perfectly hug my arches. She used to write a tiny, hidden message in black Sharpie on the inside canvas of the heel where only I would know it was there: Breathe, and fly.
For years, she watched from the wings, her face illuminated by the glow of the stage lights, mimicking the choreography with her own hands in the shadows.
When cancer took her during my senior year of high school, the music in my life stopped. I couldn't bring myself to put on a pair of tights, let alone dance. The studio felt entirely hollow without her sitting on the observation bench, knitting or watching me through the glass.
Among her things, I found a box of my old dance gear that she had carefully preserved. Right on top was that very first pair of pointe shoes. The satin was scuffed and grayed at the toes from hours of practice, the pink ribbons soft and frayed from being tied and untied a hundred times. And there, faded but still legible on the inside canvas, was her handwriting: Breathe, and fly.
I knew I couldn't let those shoes just gather dust in a closet. I wanted her presence back with me, not as a memory locked in a box, but as a tangible part of my everyday life.
I took the shoes to ashes.LOVE who specialized in memorial resin jewelry. Together, we chose a band. The artisan carefully cut a tiny, delicate strip of the faded pink satin ribbon, along with a small piece of the canvas heel bearing her handwritten word, Fly. They embedded the fabric into a channel around the center of the ring, sealing it under a crystal-clear, durable resin inlay.
Today, that ring is a permanent fixture on my finger.
The soft, pale pink of the satin sits beautifully against the metal a subtle tribute that looks like a regular piece of jewelry to anyone else, but means the world to me. It is a physical piece of the magic we shared, a fragment of the sacrifices she made and the unconditional love she poured into my dreams.
Next month, I am finally stepping back onto the stage to perform again for the first time since she passed. I won't have her backstage to zipper my costume or hand me an orange slice. But as I stand in the wings, waiting for my cue, I will press my thumb against the pink satin inlay on my finger.
I'll close my eyes, feel the cool metal against my skin, and listen to her voice echoing in the quiet spaces of my heart: Breathe, and fly. And then, I'll dance.
(I love you Mom)
