Pointe shoes by Mia

Pointe shoes by Mia - January 2026 Scholarship Essay

“Thank you, you’re free to go.” Those were the exact opposite of the words I wanted to hear. Those simple words affected my self-esteem, and I hated hearing them. I walked off that stage knowing I didn’t make it, and it felt sharp. All the awards and trophies I once took pride in suddenly held no weight and stood as a reminder of how good I once was. I realized that fifteen girls got callbacks that day, and I wasn’t one of them. I felt unqualified, like I didn’t belong, as if the hobby I’d been partaking in since I was two had suddenly betrayed me at thirteen.

In the dance world, I like to think we have our own secret language. “Thank you” really means you didn’t make it. “Can we get some more information?” means you’ve made it to the next round. Ever since I was eight, I’ve mastered the ability to read the judges’ minds before they speak, based on body language alone. Backstage, I was surrounded by girls throwing their pointe shoes across the room—not actually throwing them, but gliding them off their feet and letting them scatter across the floor. Tears mixed with sweat, ribbons and skirts were strewn across the room, girls crying and begging for a second chance. Some stared at the floor, replaying every turn in their heads. It’s funny how in one room you can feel both heartbreak and hope at once.

We made our way back to the car, stuffing our suitcases into the trunk. My sister stopped to ask how my audition went. In a fit of rage, I told her that dancing was a waste of time and money, and I’d never touch a pair of pointe shoes again. To my surprise, she agreed. “I wouldn’t either—being told ‘no’ that many times would turn me off just as bad.” Then we were quiet. We drove back to Queens, leaving the hotel we’d stayed at near the auditions for the Joffrey Ballet School so we wouldn’t have to rush that morning. I stared out the window, thinking about how much time, money, and effort had gone into my dancing career. All the classes, the bruised toes, the tight buns that almost gave me traction alopecia, the hours spent perfecting every move. All the homework I’d missed because I was too busy dancing. My mom’s long drives, the expensive shoes, the costumes we could barely afford. Painting my pointe shoes with makeup so they could match my skin tone. I wondered if it was all worth it, if all that pain and pressure had led me anywhere. But deep down, I knew I’d still show up to class next week, tape my toes again, and try one more time because even when it hurts, dance still feels like home.

When the new school year started, I thought about picking up new hobbies or joining sports. I thought about playing soccer like the rest of my family. I imagined myself devoting my time to a club or being a Girl Scout. I played soccer in high school for one season as a midfielder, but I didn’t like it. As I dribbled and kicked the soccer ball, I kept reminding myself to point my toes like I did in ballet. I joined Girl Scouts for about five months, but I didn’t like that either. The thought of showing up to strangers’ doors and begging them to buy something reminded me that I could be rejected at any moment. Before Girl Scouts, I did my hair the same way I did for dance: a tight, slicked-back bun, making sure I had no flyaways.

Years passed as I tried to replace the void left by my pointe shoes. Then, one cold winter morning, I ran into my old dance teacher, Ms. Delancy, at Rite Aid.

“What do you mean you’re not dancing anymore?” I couldn’t tell if she was asking out of concern or judgment. I told her everything I’d done during my hiatus. I mentioned getting rid of my old costumes, trying new sports, and most importantly, being rejected from the Joffrey Ballet School.

“Rejection is a stepping stone in everyone’s journey,” she said. “I’ve been rejected from many schools, but I’ve learned to turn rejection into improvement.”

Her words sparked something in me. I thought about the rush I get every time I slip my feet into ballet slippers. I thought about how at home I feel when I step into a studio. I thought about how my dance team became my family, and how I owe it to myself to keep pushing. That year away from dance was time I needed, even though I didn’t realize it at first. It taught me resilience. I remembered that there was something I cared about, and it was dancing. It no longer mattered how many people doubted me or how many times I was denied. I became more determined to pursue my dream, and I still am. Now, I take open ballet and contemporary classes whenever I can, balancing school and dance with a new sense of purpose. I know that every rejection I’ve faced has shaped the dancer and person I’m becoming.