Torn

It was when I heard the pop, I knew.

Crippling on the floor and and hobbling to side of the room, I crunched over, my left kneecap pulsating wildly. A quick dose of ice lessened the throbbing, but my nerves were unshackled by the eerie pop that only I seemed to hear. I was sure it was an injury, but I had hopes in performing for the concert the following week. Yet, to my despair, my teacher declared me unable to move, unable to dance.

To cope with this new fear, I avoided all topics of injury with friends and teachers. “Broken leg?” “No, it’s just a minor sprain.” “That looks pretty bad.” “It’s okay, it’s definitely better than it looks. I actually can walk on it!” This denial definitely stretched into a greater fear of losing my left leg, my dominant dancing leg. And as I sat through rehearsal after rehearsal, I couldn’t bear to watch the dancers without feeling a sort of guilt and rejection. Though I was excited for the upcoming concert, I knew that I had to be sidelined from dance, until of course, it was healed in a few weeks.

But the pain lingered for more than a few days.

A week later, I crutched into the doctor’s office. My suspicions were confirmed.

“You tore your ACL.”

That is when my journey with dance ended. And now is when my journey without dance begins.