Dance and Mental Health

The opinions expressed in this article are the writer’s own and do not reflect the views of The University of Scranton.

I started dancing when I was four years old. I still remember my very first costume: a little dark blue, velvet, knee-length dress with sparkles all over—I thought we were stars. I find photos of myself and my friends that I have no recollection of, and I smile and think, “she looks happy.” Dance was her favorite part of the week. She loved her teachers, her peers, the music, and expending all her energy through physical movement. 

I don’t remember exactly when she turned into present me, but I usually give the ballpark estimate of eight years old. She turned into me when I could only ever think about how I looked in comparison to the other girls, and how I felt left out and assumed, “it must be because I’m fat.” 

For the rest of my dance career, every single day, I would compare my body to that of my classmates. I’d tear myself apart for my “child-bearing hips” that had already started developing by the time I was eleven, and the D-cups I had by the time I was fifteen. I only remember how dance made me feel (sometimes positive, but usually negative), and the events that made me feel inadequate. Once, we had to pick a different costume for a competitive contemporary dance because my boobs were too big to wear a backless costume. 

So, I’d go to dance for four hours then come home and cry silently in the bathroom because I felt like a big, fat, incapable blob that no one wanted to be friends with. It hurt when two of my best friends outcasted me, and at the time, I could only assume it was because they both lost weight, and I didn’t. 

The sport that sort of saved me was martial arts. I went to dance Monday through Thursday, but Friday night, I got to go somewhere that wanted me to be big and strong, like I was. Dance appreciated my strength for lifts and certain techniques, but I often felt included and appreciated when I went to martial arts. In high school, I was talking to two boys in home ec class. One was a wrestler, so we started talking about our weight. I ashamedly said mine, and one of the boys responded, “it’s all muscle, so you can kick everybody’s ass!” Thus, my relationship with myself improved a little. 

Looking back, I wasn’t fat at all, I was just muscular and curvy. My body adapted to my sports in a way that others’ bodies didn’t: by loading me up with muscle and making me super hungry. 

I still have a lot of issues with my body image, but I try not to engage in negative self-talk. My body has carried me through all twenty-one years of my life, and for that, I am so thankful. I tell myself that gaining weight here and there is okay, it’s a natural part of life, and especially in college with insanely high cortisol levels, it’s bound to happen. I still go to the gym when I can, but I focus on moving my body and getting that boost of serotonin and dopamine rather than chaining myself to the treadmill to lose weight. I also stopped counting calories, and I’ve been trying to repair my relationship with food for a long time now. 

This article doesn’t really have a conclusion because I’m still working toward loving myself and my body, but I hope this comforts some people out there that struggle with this sort of thing. It will get better. You just have to let it. 

• body image
• dance