My First Love And My Broken Heart
My First Love And My Broken Heart
Alternate Title: Things I Can Say About Dance Classes But Not About Therapy
In December of 2006, I dutifully wrote Santa Clause a letter (or an itemized list, depending on your definition of a letter). Above all else, I wanted dance classes for Christmas that year. Santa, ever the advocate for arts education, delivered; I was enrolled in ballet by the end of the month.
My dance career was relatively short lived. I quit before starting highschool; the program was becoming time intensive, expensive, and my teacher had confessed that I did not have the body to make it as a dancer long term. But the intrigue of 6-year-old Maggie remained. Dance, I always say, was my first love.
I have experienced two breakups in my life. Both relationships happen to have been with the same man, but beyond that small detail, the two were entirely different.
My first breakup was a blazing fight followed by cold radio silence. My second was a whispered conversation during which both love and tears were exchanged. After my first breakup, I retreated back to my college home. My best friends enveloped me in their love and I enveloped myself in a pile of tissues (which we now bought in bulk at Costco). After my second breakup, I returned to Monteria, Colombia where no one knew or particularly cared that I was newly single. And, after my first break up, I immediately found a therapist. After my second breakup, I immediately found a dance instructor (two actually).
My relationship ended on a Monday night. The following Tuesday and Saturday afternoons I danced bachata in the park with Lorena, and I woke up at 6:00 am on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to dance salsa with Broks.
Every US dollar I’d spent on co-pays for therapy the first time around was now being spent on dance classes. I drowned myself in them, convinced that if I could fill my head with new steps there would be no room left for sadness.
It turns out there are quite a few things dancing did for me that therapy never accomplished. The things I thought about my dance classes I had never thought about therapy:
I am going to go to bed now (instead of thinking about the fact that I am single again) because I have dance at 6:00 am
Dance forces me to concentrate on something completely separate from my ex
I can’t wait for dance today
Dance is fun
I love dance
See, despite my year in therapy, I never fully recovered from my first breakup (clearly – I dated the man again). I lived an objectively wonderful life during that time: I went to Paris, I learned how to kitesurf in Brazil, I completed a successful Fulbright application, I spent loads of time with friends and family. I kept myself in motion and I prioritized activities I knew would bring me joy. And they did… But there was always a little shadow in the corner along with the joy. It felt like I could make my sadness small and tuck it under my bed, but there was no denying that it was still in the room.
Just one week and 5 dance classes after my second breakup, there was no shadow in the corner anymore. The joy of kicking, stepping, moving, getting choreography right, and hearing the 1, 2, 3 in the music… That joy was complete, and it was (is) all mine.
I’m not sure how to end this essay. I’m tempted to say something cliche about how you never get over your first love and that dance, rather than my ex, was mine. But honestly, I’m not sure that’s true. I do know I’ve loved both, been hurt by both, and after losing one I reconnected with the other. And, instead of feeling heartbroken, I felt in love again.