My 25th annual recital was spectacular with beautiful testimonials from former students, confetti, sparkles, and a joyous celebration marking a quarter-century in business. The celebration, however, was short-lived because I was still grieving the departure of a student.
It may sound dramatic, considering she’s doing well—more than well, actually. She was possibly the most talented student at my studio, whom I’ve been training for a decade, since she was 4.
A few weeks ago, she sent me a short, four-sentence email. The first sentence expressed hopes for my summer. The second informed me she was moving to another studio. The third conveyed her enjoyment of dancing here and her sadness to leave. The fourth wished me well for the coming year. Brief yet powerful enough to spin my thoughts.
Her email arrived just as I was heading out the door for a special dinner to celebrate my wedding anniversary. “Hold on a moment,” I said, as I broke down in tears as if I’d lost my best friend. A dark cloud lingered over me all night, and I tried to move past it for my husband’s sake. But he has patiently supported me through every loss in my 28 years of marriage—and these losses hurt deeply.
I’m not talking about younger students leaving for soccer or gymnastics or following friends to studios without ballet. I mean the students you’ve nurtured for years, sharing life conversations, hugs, and support through every onstage mishap.
As dance teachers, we perpetually question our worth. Have I done enough? I’ve read self-help books, listened to podcasts, watched videos—all to reinforce that I am enough. Yet life events like these bring self-doubt back to the forefront. Back to square one, battling soul-sucking thoughts. Recognizing this vicious cycle, I yearn to break free. After 25 years, I pondered if there’s another way. That’s when “the garden” metaphor emerged in my thoughts.
The studio is my garden. Makes sense, right?
I am its designer, planner, and owner.
My students are the plants.
My teachers are the gardeners.
As the garden’s owner, I decide its type—low-maintenance or meticulously tended to. Each garden type has its beauty, but I can’t have them all.
Sometimes, certain plants don’t thrive together; weeds can choke their delicate growth. Too much or too little of everything affects them. Planting a seed and watching it bloom into a flower brings unparalleled joy, though each flower fades, making way for the next season’s bloom. I can’t turn a daisy into a rose, but I can nurture each flower to its fullest potential.
My garden may be too vast to tend alone. I hire help—dedicated gardeners who care deeply about plant health. Clear communication ensures they tend the garden as I envision. Lazy or inexperienced gardeners cause issues, but with attention, the garden thrives despite setbacks.
When a gardener leaves for another garden, taking plants with them, I feel the gap briefly and hope that my garden fills anew. But I also pray their new garden flourishes, appreciating its origins. As for the gardener who uproots without care, they reap what they sow.
As a garden owner, I accept the uncontrollable—infestations and disasters—knowing that resilience means starting afresh. So, I find solace in viewing the loss of one flower as natural, inspiring a closer look at my garden to ensure it aligns with my overarching design.
Prepare the soil!