Facing the Thrill 

    I am terrified of roller coasters. The thought of being strapped on a burning hot metal machine to lift me hundreds of feet in the air and flip me upside down is not my idea of fun. I stare at the dauntingly high structure, and even though it’s painted in bright sunshine colors, it makes me feel sick to my stomach and terrified. I wait in the obnoxiously long line with my cousins, and we’re up to get in. The coaster blasts off at unimaginable speeds, but I’m still on the ground. I couldn’t do it.

   I’ve always had a problem with facing my fears. I dream big and live extraordinarily small. Everything I want to achieve looks like that giant roller coaster, impossible to tackle, so I won’t even attempt to get on. I would constantly downplay my skills and not even try to achieve the dreams that I had. They were just thoughts; maybe I could do those things in another universe. But not me. 

   This was the case with dancing. I had loved dance since I was a kid but never believed I was good enough. In 6th grade, I felt my self-doubts were validated as I joined the dance team for some time, but only a couple of chosen students could perform for the school. The rest of us were discarded to be the audience. I wouldn’t attempt to dance again until my sophomore year of high school. I was taking a dance class as an elective and began to reestablish my love for it. My friend convinced me to try out for the team that year, and even though I didn’t want to, I reluctantly agreed to support them. I put genuine effort into practicing the tryout choreography. I remember waiting for my turn, staring at the four walls of the dance studio that were all mirrors, contemplating walking out. The room got smaller, my breathing heavier, and I felt like my throat was choked by the girl who stared back at me in the mirror. But I pushed my fear aside and performed, feeling the beady eyes of the teacher analyzing my every move. I, unfortunately, didn’t make the team and felt a combination of disappointment, contentment, and relief. I was disappointed, I felt like a failure who couldn’t do anything right, but I was content with the fact that I attempted even when the thoughts in my head tried to pull me away. I also felt this sense of relief that I was yet again validated in my self-doubt. Saying to myself, other people don’t think you have the skill set so don’t even try.

   Then came senior year. The last hoorah. The last chance. I stared at the flier on the yellow and white tile wall outside the dance studio. That summer, I made a playlist of songs I would love to get the chance to choreograph if I ever got on the team, but I didn’t know if I could face that rejection again. I was content dancing in my room with no one around to see and to never perform, even though it’s what I truly wanted. I made the choice again. I didn’t want to envision the what-ifs; how would I know if I never tried?

   I went through the unnerving tryout process yet again. It was almost as if I had walked into a memory. It was just like sophomore year. After showing simple dance moves and abilities, the auditionees were shown the new tryout choreography. Dread and uneasiness filled every crevice of my body as I watched a member of the team perform a complicated combination that I would have to mimic with less than 20 minutes to grasp it fully. The panic I thought I had gotten rid of was back to haunt me. The false confidence I had when I first walked into the studio faded, imitating the clear blue sky becoming a darkened, somber black as the audition went on. The auditionees were split into multiple groups to showcase their knowledge of the choreography. I specifically placed myself in the last group, my fear taking the lead. I obsessively practiced to get every exact move correct and practiced my choreography that students were allowed to show afterward. I could only avoid stepping back into the studio for so long, it was finally the last group’s turn, and I did what I was meant to do, dance my heart out. I watched myself in the mirror, hitting every move correctly. Then it was time to show my own style in my choreography. I went to the computer and speaker system and typed in the chosen song. The song was one I held dear and was a part of the playlist I made in the summer. It was intimidating to perform under pressure, but as soon as I heard the music, I smiled and let it move me. A few weeks later, the results came, and the anticipation was eating me alive. I locked eyes with my dance teacher. I’ll never forget her saying, “You made the team. Congratulations.” 

   That was the easy part. The fear never wavered; it was a consistent whisper in my ear. I made the team, but I had to fight and continue to work to bring my dreams to life. As a senior, I was allowed to create my own choreography, and even though I had never officially done so, I decided to step up to the challenge. I decided to face my fears even more by choosing a song in a genre no one else explored, but this was my opportunity to use my creative freedom and paint my canvas with the neon colors I chose. The following year consisted of scrapping songs, rearranging dance moves, researching and perfecting dance techniques, and creating my style. It was terrifying having all these opportunities and responsibilities. I remember sitting on the pitch-black floor of the studio, watching over my recordings of choreography and wishing the floor would become a black hole to swallow me. I hated what I was viewing, and I was afraid of failing. But I wasn’t alone. I had my small but powerful trio of dancers as my support system. We worked together to put together an unforgettable performance, and I felt, little by little, the tightening in my chest dissipate. 

   The hardest part was getting on the stage and putting months of hard work on display to the audience I once was a part of. Waiting in the wings was truly the worst part. The anticipation and anxiety built up in me, a balloon ready to pop any minute. The first group finished up their performance, and I was up next.

Standing there waiting for my cue with the music. This was my moment, and I was going to prove to myself that I deserved to be on that stage.

   The lights danced with me, changing facial expressions and putting on their best performance. My group members put all their energy into creating perfection, and we hit pretty close. Once it was over and I heard the applause, I couldn’t believe it was for me. I was getting praised for something I felt I had no business doing. I thought I was talentless, but it was clear that putting in the work and facing my fears proved otherwise.

    One of my favorite quotes is by Lemony Snicket “If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be waiting the rest of our lives.” Failure is a part of life. I had to stop running away from opportunities just because I believed I wasn’t good enough. Time is something you can never get back, so whatever you’re dreaming of, do not wait, take action. The thing is, the roller coaster never got any smaller. I got bigger. I got stronger. Strong enough to still be afraid but able to face my fears anyways, strap myself in, and trust that the path I choose is the right one.