Big Girl

The room was a frenzy of twirling tutus. Adrenaline filled the air, sparking the tiny ballerinas into frantic leaps that ended with them splattered against the mirror like Silly Putty. Parents rummaged around for ballet slippers, hair ties and dance bags scattered amidst the chaos. Their last class of the year was over, the recital was near, and another year at the dance studio had come to an end.

One mom with a tiny ballerina attached to her hip approached my friend and me to say goodbye for the season. “Sarai loves you girls so much,” she said. “She always says ‘I want to be like Leah and Maria.’ The other day when we got her two new baby dolls, she named them after you two.”

My friend and I were the Helpant teachers of the five and six-year-old ballerinas. Our jobs were to correct the girls in first position at the barre and lead them across the floor as they leaped over stuffed dragons.

Yet despite the weeks of tightening ballet slippers, I never really knew if I had an impact on all those little girls. They mostly seemed happy to giggle and twirl and barely spoke to me except to offer a shy smile. But perhaps the things I did, like compliment their mermaid-like braid or teach them the steps if they missed a class, made me a role model. Perhaps they even made me into one of those poised and graceful girls who once helped me.

I used to look up to those “big girls.” Back then, I was the little girl who couldn’t control the spigot on the water cooler and who only went to dance class for a chance to wear a pretty pink dance outfit and ballet clip. I was the girl who hardly spoke in class and wouldn’t ask any questions. I was the girl who, behind the dark stage with wide eyes, watched the big girls with perfectly smooth buns, and arms and legs stretching as long as The Giving Tree’s branches could reach.

Now, I am one of the big girls. I am one of those girls I used to look up to — with the high-heeled tap shoes, and dance routines that involve more than bouncing your knees. I am the big girl who just grabs her keys and drives to dance class. I am the big girl who cooks dinner for my family and decides what color to paint my new room. After eighteen years of stepping in and out of my comfort zone, losing and making friends, learning my weaknesses and strengths, discovering my passions, coming out of my shell, I’m ready to start a new chapter of my life and go off to college. I’m no longer the little girl in the tutu back stage; I am the big girl performing by myself in the spotlight. Somewhere along the way, I grew up.

Back at the studio, the girls pack up and offer good-bye hugs. As I watch Sarai leave, she reminds me of a younger me. I look at her and see where I started, and how far I’ve come. From the girl who couldn’t distinguish left from right, to the girl in the pointe shoes doing impossible turns. I am now “the big girl.” I am the one they look up to. I always wondered what it would feel like to grow up. I know I’m still growing, but I also know that somewhere, in some pink bedroom, in some tiny, plastic stroller, there is a baby doll with my name. And that feels really good.