Personal Narrative: Get Off My Dance Floor !

“Get off my dance floor!” my dance instructor screamed in my face as a hush fell over the room. I stood there for a moment, unsure of the extent to which she actually meant it. Did she really want me to leave in the middle of class? Sweat beating down my forehead, I could feel her intimidating glare as she waited for me to make my move. I couldn’t look her in the face. Tears of embarrassment swelled in my eyes as I slowly began backing away. I had never before been yelled at by a teacher like this. I walked over to my dance bag with my head down, avoiding eye contact with my peers and their parents. I did not know where to go next; my mother wasn’t there yet to take me home to safety. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather see than my mother

I sat on the floor, legs crossed, watching my classmates dance through the glass wall that separated us. In that moment, I imagined what my life would be like without dance. I couldn’t even fathom the idea of returning to another class and dancing in front of my teacher again. The moment I entered my car I began to cry. I let out all of the emotions I was forced to bottle up while still in the presence of my teacher. I hated her, I hated dance, and I hated the fact that my mother wouldn’t let me quit. I’ve always been a hard worker. Whenever I see room for improvement in anything I do, I am prompted to act. The most satisfying moment is when I am rewarded for my diligence. When it came to dance, slacking off would never yield satisfaction. I poured 100% of my effort into every dance and strove to become better with each performance.

Consequently, in that moment of utter failure, I was pushed down to a level which I had never been to before. It was a state of mind where the only way to overcome that moment of failure was to quit and never attempt to learn from it. It was heartbreaking for me to experience failure in something I placed all of my effort