Finding My Way Back on Pointe in Germany

Every year I make a list of things I want to do. Most years, a few things get crossed off. If they don't, they stay on the list for the following year and usually get moved closer to the top. Some things eventually become forgotten, while others sit there year after year, quietly reminding me that I still haven't done them. This year, one of those things that had been sitting on my list for four years finally got crossed off: get back on pointe.

I've danced since I was little, although calling myself a dancer has always felt a little generous. Before I ever took an actual class, I learned from movies and television shows, copying whatever movements I could remember and practicing them wherever I had enough space. I finally took my first real dance class during my freshman year of high school, and in total, I only had about two years of actual training, if you can call it that. I wasn't one of those dancers who started at three years old and grew up spending every afternoon in a studio. I didn't have years of competitions, recitals, summer intensives, or a closet full of old dance shoes. My relationship with dance was much more casual than that, but it was still something I loved.

I've only had one pair of pointe shoes in my life, and even those weren't actually mine. My dance teacher gave them to me, and by the time they reached me, they were already an old pair. In ballet, shoes that have been worn down to the point where the box can no longer properly support the dancer are often referred to as "dead" shoes. They had already served their purpose, but I was thrilled to have them anyway. At the time, I kept telling myself that one day I would get my own pair. Once my ankles were stronger, once my lines were cleaner, once I signed up for another class, once I felt like I actually deserved them, I would buy a pair.

Then I stopped dancing.

Four years went by, and every year I found another reason to wait. My ankles did get stronger, and my lines did get cleaner, but that somehow didn't make me any less afraid of starting again. There was always the possibility that I would sign up for a class and immediately realize that I had forgotten everything. What if I couldn't keep up? What if everyone else was better than me? What if I fell on my face? What if I messed up so badly that I embarrassed myself? There was also the fact that pointe shoes aren't cheap. A good pair can cost up to around $300 USD, and depending on how often you dance and how quickly you wear them down, they may not last very long. Dancers who train regularly can rotate between multiple pairs to help them last longer, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do when you're actually dancing regularly. For someone who hadn't danced in four years, however, spending that kind of money on something I wasn't even sure I would use felt like another reason to wait.

I had gotten very good at waiting.

Then I went to Germany on a whim, and somewhere along the way I started thinking that if I could get on a plane and go to another country without much of a plan, surely I could buy a pair of pointe shoes without overthinking it for another four years. Impulsive is basically my middle name at this point, so one day I walked into a dance store, Tricot, and decided that this was finally going to happen.

The woman who helped me—whose name unfortunately escapes me—was incredibly kind and patient, especially considering the language barrier. She was also very honest, which I appreciated and simultaneously did not appreciate at all. She immediately pointed out my lack of leg muscles. Love that for me. I explained that I hadn't danced in four years, and she responded with an "oh" that said significantly more than the word itself. It wasn't a casual acknowledgment. Her face changed just enough for me to know she was reconsidering whatever she had expected when I walked into the store.

I know I look unathletic, so I can't even blame her. Still, the shock on her face when I went straight up had me gagged. I was already nervous enough about being there, and suddenly I was standing in front of someone who actually knew what she was looking at. There was no hiding behind the confidence I had built up in my head on the way to the store.

The first pair I tried on was too big. She immediately told me to get back down and swiftly grabbed a smaller pair. The next pair had a box that was too big, and then there were other problems with the next four pairs. Every time I thought we might have found the one, something else was wrong. At some point, I stopped trying to understand what was happening and just trusted her judgment. She was clearly much more qualified to decide what belonged on my feet than I was.

Eventually, we found a pair that worked. Well, she found a pair that worked. I was mostly standing there trying not to embarrass myself while she examined my feet and watched my form. Once she seemed satisfied enough, she gave me a very professional assessment: "Mm. Decent."

Her words, not mine.

My heart dropped to my ass. Truly. After four years of thinking about getting back on pointe, after convincing myself that I needed to become stronger and better before I was allowed to try again, I was finally standing there in my own pair of pointe shoes and the official verdict was essentially, "They're decent."

She could tell I was either stressing or very nervous about my form, probably both. She got down on her knees and began adjusting my stance, moving my feet and pushing my heels so they sat more directly over the box. My spine was straighter than what I claimed it was back in middle school. I was trying very hard to look like I knew what I was doing, even though I was painfully aware of how long it had been since my body had done this.

Then she told me I was falling into the box.

I knew.

I could feel it.

She explained that once I had stronger legs, I should come back. I understood exactly what she meant, but hearing it out loud still felt like another small blow to my ego.

Girl, damn. Take it easy.

The funny part is that she wasn't being rude. She was doing her job, and she was right. My legs weren't strong enough yet. Four years is a long time to go without training, and ballet is particularly unforgiving when it comes to strength. There isn't really a way to fake it. Your feet, ankles, legs, hips, core, and posture all have to work together, and if one part isn't strong enough, it becomes obvious almost immediately. Apparently, my four-year hiatus had not been as invisible as I had hoped.

I bought the shoes anyway.

She put all the failed matches away and started setting me up with ribbon and elastic. She questioned everything, from whether I knew how to sew to whether I knew how to attach everything properly. I kept assuring her that I knew what I was doing. I didn't tell her that if I didn't, TikTok exist and would probably have several tutorials waiting for me.

By the time I finally swiped my card, I had experienced what felt like my heart dropping into my ass for the third time that afternoon. But I had done it. I walked out of the store with my first real pair of pointe shoes, and for the first time in four years, the idea of getting back on pointe wasn't some vague thing I was going to do "eventually." It was sitting in a bag in my hands.

Of course, buying the shoes was only the beginning.

I spent the next three days sourcing the materials I needed for darning them, and then another week actually darning them. If you've never had to darn pointe shoes, it is one of those things that sounds much easier than it actually is. You spend hours sewing and reinforcing the shoes, trying to get everything right, while simultaneously trying not to stab yourself with a needle. I managed to do both. After many pricks and quite a bit of blood, they were finally done.

I was ridiculously excited.

There is something strange about finally owning something you've spent years telling yourself you weren't ready for. The shoes themselves weren't magical. They didn't suddenly make me stronger or more technically capable, but they represented something I had been putting off for a very long time. I had finally stopped waiting for some imaginary version of myself who would be stronger, more experienced, less afraid, and therefore somehow more deserving of trying again.

Then I actually started using them.

After some basic strength exercises, my first toenail was sacrificed to the cause. Nine days away from a month later, it still hasn't grown back—not even a centimeter. Apparently, my toenail has decided that it too needs four years to recover.

As painful and ridiculous as that sounds, I can't say I regret it.

My legs are getting stronger. I'm looking into local classes, and I'm slowly trying to figure out what getting back into dance is actually going to look like for me. I don't expect to walk into a studio and magically be the dancer I was four years ago, especially considering how little formal training I had to begin with. I also don't think I need to be.

For a long time, I thought getting back on pointe meant returning to where I left off. I imagined that I needed to somehow rebuild the version of myself who danced before and pick up exactly where I had stopped. But I don't think that's really how returning to something works. Four years have passed. I'm different now, my body is different, and the way I approach things is different. I'm not trying to become the dancer I was at seventeen or eighteen. I'm trying to figure out who I am as a dancer now.

And maybe that's why this stayed on my list for so long.

It wasn't really about the shoes.

The shoes were just the tangible part of it. They were something I could buy, sew, put on, and eventually dance in. The harder part was admitting that I was scared to try something I cared about because I might not be good at it anymore. I had convinced myself that waiting until I was stronger would make the fear go away, but it didn't. Waiting just gave the fear more time to become an excuse.

Going to Germany on a whim somehow made that obvious to me. I had spent years overthinking a pair of shoes while being perfectly willing to make much bigger decisions without knowing exactly how they would turn out. There was never going to be a moment where I woke up and suddenly felt completely ready. At some point, I had to decide that being nervous wasn't a good enough reason not to do it.

So I did.

I bought the shoes. I sewed the ribbons. I darned the box. I stabbed myself approximately a million times. I sacrificed a toenail. I got roasted by a very kind German dance-store employee. I was told my legs weren't strong enough. I bought the shoes anyway.

And now I'm working on making them deserve to be worn.

I don't know exactly where this will take me. Maybe I'll find a class and fall in love with dancing all over again. Maybe I'll discover that my body isn't capable of doing everything I used to want it to do. Maybe I'll fall on my face. Honestly, there is a non-zero chance of that happening.

But at least now I get to find out.

Four years ago, I stopped dancing because I thought I had to choose between being good at something and doing it for the joy of it. This time, I'm trying to choose the second one.

My legs are getting stronger, I'm looking for a local class, and my pointe shoes are sitting there waiting for me.

For once, something on my yearly list isn't being carried over to the next year.

It's crossed off.

Not because I waited until I was ready, but because I finally decided that maybe I didn't have to be