Within the past year, my therapist began an exercise with me to piece out, name, and validate various parts of myself. Although it seems rather ‘multiple personality disorder-ish’ it’s been an interesting exercise. In the beginning, I only had two parts. 1) Me at my best 2) Me at my worst. Light and dark, life and death, polarized when life pushed me too far.

As this exercise progressed, other parts of myself have appeared. I now have 8 that are named and recognized. It is helpful when facing a dilemma in life or making sense of past traumas. It is helpful when picturing myself, in the future, doing something that scares or will be difficult for me. Each part has a story and role in my life. This is the story of Rebel, dancer.

Rebel was not born to me until I was a teenager. I remember the exact moment when she opened her eyes and sat up with a start. I was in Kansas City’s Music Hall, the early part of December 1983, watching the Kansas City Ballet perform Tchaikovsky’s ‘The Nutcracker’. There is a magical part of the ballet where the Christmas Tree on stage grows to an impossible size. It elicits a round of applause from the audience. I remember the energy of that moment particularly, but everything that came after was just as magical to me.

I come from a musical family, both my parents have a musical ability which they passed on to all their children in one way or another. My father has the spirit of a performer. I see this in him each time I hear him sing or tell a story. My mother has played and taught piano as far back as I can remember. Several of my siblings became accomplished pianists. We all took lessons, and, although I did not develop a love for it, I have appreciated the ability to read music, which I learned in this way.

I was born with a bleeding condition similar to Hemophilia. People with these types of disorders can develop what are known as “target joints.” These start when a particular joint is injured and there is a localized bleed into the area. Due to the bleed, the joint becomes weakened and easier to injure again. The process repeats until the cartilage in the joint is eaten away by the repeated bleeds. I have two target joints, both of my ankles. I have been this way as long as I can remember. My right ankle was the first to succumb, it warranted my first surgery (of 14, but who’s bragging) at age 8. Prior to this surgery, I spent quite a lot of time on crutches. I remember being on crutches on the playground in 1st grade. There was a boy in my class who had to wear an A-shape brace on his legs for the entire school year. We were often the two most noticeable kids standing off to the side. I remember him, not for the brace or even because we were the walking wounded of our class, but for how happy he looked when he got to walk in the classroom without his brace on the last day of school.

Because I’ve never known anything different, my ankles and bleeding disorder became a normal part of my life. 3rd grade would find me kicking ass on the playground in four-square and tether-ball, wearing my dresses with shorts underneath, legs all banged up and covered in bruises. My gymnastics teacher leaned in once, after spotting me in a magnificent pull-over on the uneven bars, to ask if my mommy hit me. My husband now gets the side-eye my mom used to get. Love me, love my bruises.

I hate seeing doctors about my ankles. I avoid it as much as possible as these appointments are depressing. They contain poor prognosis’ and having to look at x-rays so I can see the damage the numerous bleeds have caused over my lifetime. I have no cartilage in either ankle. I have been bone-on-bone for I don’t know how long. I am unable to flex either foot. Every morning I start out walking on my tiptoes. If I am sitting for a few hours I will need to start tiptoeing again on one or both feet. I also walk pigeon-toed to compensate for my lack of flexibility. My footprints are very recognizable. Honestly, I have had moments of feeling sorry for myself for my bleeding disorder. The ways it caused infertility, numerous surgeries, and countless hours in Emergency Rooms. I don’t feel bad about my ankles very often as I’ve never known anything different.

This is what Rebel has been able to overcome. Her will to dance has always been greater than my physical limitations.

I started taking lessons as soon as Rebel was born to me. I very much appreciate my parents’ support in this. Dance classes are expensive and I required transportation back and forth until I could drive myself. My mother had 8 children and taught piano lessons after school, this was a huge sacrifice on her part especially.

I had a dream to get on pointe shoes. I remember being elated when I was able to take this step. (Fortunately for me, my ankles can point like crazy, they just can’t flex.) Since I spend a portion of each day on my tiptoes anyway, my balance is pretty good.

My second dream was to dance on the stage of Music Hall, where I’d seen The Nutcracker (by then several times.) As luck would have it, this is where my dance school held their recitals, so that worked out for me. One ballet number, one jazz. It was a happy couple of days.

I was captivated by dancing and had elaborate dreams of moving to NYC to dance professionally. As an adult, I am aware this could never be, for more reasons than my ankles. My naivete about what it took in the dance world does not hurt me now. The dream died pretty honestly, at college level dance classes. I did not find them fun at all. The instructors were stern and my fellow students were serious enough about this to have surgeries over breaks for increased flexibility in their feet. I don’t remember being disappointed realizing I could not do this. I remember feeling relieved to let go of this dream. Not wanting to surrender my dream of living in NYC, though, I switched my major to International Relations and decided I would work at the United Nations instead.

At age 24 I found myself overcome with the desire to try out for Kansas City Chiefs Cheerleaders. They had open tryouts each year at the end of March. Why did this particular thing cause Rebel to awaken? I can’t tell you, really. I don’t even like football.

I didn’t make it. None of us did. 750 young women showed up to audition for 6 open spots. After a full year of believing this was my destiny, you would think not making it would have been devastating to me. It wasn’t. I remember even feeling relieved when it was over. Like my college-level ballet classes, I had realized very quickly this wasn’t going to be a fun job. At I look back I ask myself – what chance did you ever have at that? Honestly, it doesn’t matter. I trained, I showed up, I tried out with hundreds of other women who wanted it just as much as I did. I’m proud of the guts it took to do that. I remember leaving that day excited that I could eat whatever I wanted to for lunch. And that was that.

Rebel slept through the years of newlyweds and early motherhood. I had two more ankle surgeries during this time. As my children reached Elementary School level, I joined a local gym where I was introduced to dance fitness. I was hooked from the first class. My instructor was insanely popular and the drive from school drop-off to the gym was full of stress that the class would be too full by the time I got there. I gained a group of friends that liked going out dancing occasionally. I began buying and wearing treacherous shoes to these evenings out and occasionally collapsing into bed as 3am rolled around. Compared to the short hair and overalls of new-momdom, these were good times.

At the age of 44, I found myself auditioning for a part in “9 to 5: The Musical.” This tested me physically, to the point of tears at times. I was in 7 dance numbers and had a small speaking part. I was, unfortunately, felled by a gallbladder attack during the final two weeks of rehearsals. I was released from the hospital the day before Tech Sunday, where we were to perform the entire show twice. With a swollen abdomen that felt full of broken glass and dirty needles, Rebel somehow made it through 14 dance numbers. I cried both on opening and closing nights, the first because I was terrified and the last because I didn’t want it to be over.

The next few years I refer to as my “Unfortunate Series of Events.” I retell it as a comedy at this point, for the most part. So ridiculous and far-reaching that it became a satire. Major health issues, a multi-state move, adult children problems, destruction. Let’s just catch up with me at 49, in a new place, and at the starting line of a very serious depressive episode.

Rebel saved my life last summer. Quite literally. As luck would have it, I had burned out at Planet Fitness and was looking around for dance fitness classes. Living in Florida, even at 50 years old, I am often the youngest person in any group. Group fitness can be tough because things are geared towards the senior population. I’d found a zumba class with the words “high energy” in the description and talked myself into giving it a try. I do remember how painfully obvious I felt walking into this class. Wishing to shrink myself so I wouldn’t be noticed. My confidence was quite low at that time and I felt both physically and emotionally beaten.

The first class was good, I bought in for the month. By the second month, I was up acting the fool and making jokes on the front row.

The depressive episode was no laughing matter, though. There was more than one day during these six months that I would awaken thinking, I just can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to. Each day I would still get up and get dressed and head to class, telling myself to see how I felt afterward. I was under enormous physical and emotional distress during this time, sleeping just 3-4 hours each night and barely eating. Amazingly, my strength held up through all this. Rebel never failed me. Day by day, she lock-stepped me through to the end of it.

2020 had provided me with a new lease on life. My depression lifted and I started dreaming for myself again. Suddenly I had options and time and decided to become a fitness instructor myself.

I did my certification just a few days prior to teaching my first class. I was training for 4 hours a day to prepare for this. I would break down in tears of frustration, wondering why I thought I could ever do such a thing. Taking a class is one thing, teaching it is another. The physical strength to put 100% energy for 55 minutes, 16 songs worth of choreography, being able to think ahead far enough to cue. I realized pretty quickly I was out of my league. It was too much, I was unable to keep the choreography straight. I didn’t know how I would do it.

Covid saved me, in the end. The day before the class I felt woefully unprepared for is when we went into lockdown. After a few weeks, though, my confidence returned and I decided to start teaching anyway on Zoom. Zumba for Shut-Ins was born, for people stuck at home and needing a little boost. I was terrified. I felt only slightly more prepared than I was a month earlier. I put on my red lipstick and told myself “Rebel can do this” again and again. She did. 43 people attended my first class from all over the country. Siblings, parents, in-laws, Zumba friends, local friends, Alton friends, Kansas City friends, internet friends. I was overwhelmed to have so much support for my first class.