Personal Narrative: Keeping Me On My Toes

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Keeping Me On My Toes
As I watched my friends race off the ballet barre, their pale pink slippers pattering behind them, I slowly dragged behind, thoroughly exhausted after the two hour class. As if filled with a newfound source of energy, they entered the break room, where brightly colored mesh bags rested across the benches. Enviously, I followed behind them, reluctantly slipping off my own pair of battered ballet slippers, evidence of hours in the practice room. Chattering happily, the girls emptied the contents of their bags and pulled out the satin-covered pointe shoes and proceeded to expertly lace them up their legs. As I sipped from my water bottle, I gazed at the beautiful sight. Attached elegantly to the perfectly-arched shank, the long soft ribbons connected the inner and outer soles to the hard, wooden box at the tip of the shoe. Soon, the soft classical melody began to play as the ballerinas performed classic, sophisticated arabesques and pirouettes as I lamely gazed from the doorway. A lump formed in my throat. How long before my chance to shine in the spotlight?
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After experiencing the The Nutcracker for my 8th birthday, I dreamed of being able to dance en pointe just like the graceful prima ballerina. Despite this, one too many classes had passed with me standing on the sidelines as my classmates, one by one, crossed one of the first finish lines of a young dancer: earning a first pair of pointe shoes. After I left the studio that night, I ran to the car in tears, overcome by feelings of envy. My mom looked at me in confusion, a worried look in her eyes. “What happened?” she asked. After finding the words to explain my pain, she looked down at me knowingly, and said, “Success is earned not

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