Sarah's Story: Unraveling

Tan Laoshi slapped my trembling thigh, my knee automatically straightening on the ballet barre. I could feel droplets of sweat cascading down my neck and back as her scrutiny pierced straight through my skin. My breath hitched when my new dance instructor pivoted closer, her eyes swimming with judgement. She opened her mouth, and: “看来你寒假期间吃得有点太多了。” It seems that you’ve eaten a bit too much this winter break.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to take a pair of scissors and cut my fat off. I wanted to never look at my body in a leotard and tights again. I wanted to hate my teacher for making me feel so ashamed of my middle school body. Instead, I furiously swiped at the traitorous tears that had trickled down my cheeks and sucked my stomach in as much as I could without my ribs flaring.

I’ve always known that being a dancer inevitably places you in uncomfortable and toxic environments. It’s impossible to cease comparisons made between you and other dancers, whether those comparisons are about who can do more turns, who is more flexible, or—what I have come to struggle with the most—who is skinnier. I had never been self-conscious about my weight until I took up lessons with Tan Laoshi, who had trained at prestigious dance academies in China. Without even realizing it, as the months went by, I was slowly being conditioned to hate my body. In every single class I underwent with her, Tan Laoshi never failed to comment on my “chubby legs” and reminded me to eat less. Every time I left her house, a new insecurity was branded across my face, burning red with shame and hurt.

My newfound obsession with my body terrified me. I was a mere middle schooler skipping multiple days of meals and working out relentlessly in the privacy of my room. I took photos of my legs every morning to track whether they had magically thinned overnight. I relished hearing Tan Laoshi say I’d gotten skinnier—and when she said the opposite, I immediately planned how long I would go without eating. I had spun myself into a cycle of craving her validation and starving myself, too young to understand the danger but old enough to feel miserable.

When I was finally allowed to quit my lessons with Tan Laoshi, relief washed over me in a wave larger than I expected. I felt free, thinking that escaping her voice meant escaping the mindset.

I was wrong. I didn’t leave the cycle at all—I was utterly consumed by its poison.

While training at my main, more formal studio, I thought I’d be happier without Tan Laoshi peering over my shoulder. But she had left a scar so deep that I couldn’t even wear tights anymore. I remember getting ready for class, staring at my leotard and tights as a knot formed in my stomach. They’re just tights, I told myself, over and over, but the panic didn’t care. I left the house wearing warm-up pants instead. My teacher scolded me for “forgetting” my dance-wear, my friends laughed good-naturedly with me about it, and I promised I’d wear tights next class.

Then we moved to the center to work on turns. And the full-length mirror swallowed me whole.

I couldn’t stray my eyes away from my reflection. Every angle, every line, every inch of my body felt wrong. The voice in my head wasn’t even Tan Laoshi’s anymore; it was mine, echoing the things she’d taught me to believe. Look at your legs. Look at their legs. You need to lose weight. Everyone can see how big you are.

Soon, I started skipping breakfast… then lunch. At school, I’d tell myself I wasn’t hungry, even when my stomach ached. But starving myself always turned into bingeing later—eating everything in a fog of panic and then drowning in guilt afterward. I constantly wanted to make myself throw up, even though I never could. I hated myself for eating and hated myself for wanting not to eat.

Eventually, I quit ballet—not because I “hated ballet”, like I told everyone, but because I couldn’t bear looking at myself in a leotard anymore. In other dance styles I could hide in looser clothes, pretending that I simply preferred contemporary and hip-hop. But the truth was simpler: I couldn’t face my body in tight clothing without feeling as though I was being judged, even in empty studios, even by my own reflection.

I didn’t even think I had an eating disorder, or body dysmorphia, or anything “serious”. I wasn’t diagnosed. I wasn’t hospitalized. I convinced myself that meant I didn’t deserve help, that I wasn’t “sick enough” to matter, that struggling in silence was just what dancers did. That mindset was toxic. And it took me years to even recognize that.

I’m still in the cycle, in some ways. I still get nervous eating in front of people. I still suck in my stomach when I wear something tight. I still avoid shorts. Recovery is not linear or clean or quick—I’m learning that the hard way. But I’m also learning how to accept myself, no matter how slowly or painful it is. And that’s why I wanted to create The EmpowerED Initiative, because I know exactly what it feels like to be struggling and unheard, and thinking you’re not “bad enough” to deserve help, and carrying shame in your body like a second skin.

I don’t have everything figured out, but I’m trying my best. I hope this community makes someone out there feel less alone while they try too.