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The Honest Advice You Actually Need
Three years into my contemporary dance journey, I finally understood why my teacher kept saying the same thing over and over: "Let it go." Not my muscles—my grip on trying to be perfect. There's a moment when technique becomes second nature, and what actually separates good dancers from great ones isn't their extension or their turnout. It's their willingness to be uncomfortable on stage.
Here's what I wish someone had told me from day one.
The Foundation Nobody Talks About
Yes, you need pliés. Yes, you need tendus. But here's what training teaches you that technique alone doesn't: your relationship with effort. When you consistently show up to your barre work—even on days when you feel like garbage—you're building mental stamina that no amount ofnatural flexibility can replace.
The dancers who make it aren't always the most talented. They're the ones who kept showing up when it felt pointless.
Why Your Body Is Your Instrument
Feel the music sounds like advice you'd find on a motivational poster, so let me say it differently: the music is your collaborator, not your ruler.
When you're depending on a perfect eight-count, your movement looks rehearsed. When you're actually listening—catching the hiccup in a vocal line, the pause before the drop—you find the unplanned moments that make audiences lean forward. Some of my best improvisations have come from dancing to songs I'd never heard before, letting my body react before my brain could catch up.
Build a playlist. Add songs that make you feel something. Then forget everything you know and move.
Borrowing Without Apology
Contemporary pulls from everywhere—ballet, hip-hop, Martha Graham, TikTok trends, martial arts. Trying to stay pure to one style is like refusing to learn new vocabulary.
One of the most useful things you can do: take a class outside your comfort zone. That hip-hop workshop that intimidates you? You're not going to learn how to pop lock. You're building awareness in your joints and weight distribution that ballet never taught. That contemporary release technique class might feel like "nothing," but the floor work alone will transform how you move through space.
Every style you touch adds another color to your brush.
The Mental Game
I started meditating not because I wanted to—I couldn't afford not to. My anxiety was wrecking my performances before I even hit the stage.
Five minutes of breathing before rehearsal isn't about becoming zen. It's about noticing what's happening in your body before it becomes a problem. Are your shoulders up by your ears? Is your jaw clenched? These aren't just states—they affect your line, your breathing, your ability to turn without spiraling.
Being present doesn't mean channeling some mystical energy. It means noticing you're thinking about groceries instead of the music, and choosing to come back.
Flexibility Is a Practice, Not a Gift
I couldn't touch my toes for the first two years. Now I can. The difference wasn't some sudden growth spurt—it was daily consistent stretching, even for five minutes.
But here's the thing most people skip: it's not just about touching your toes. It's about range of motion that lets you control your movement, not just stretch it. A split means nothing if you can't use it. Work on flexibility that serves your dancing, not just your Instagram.
Static and dynamic stretching both matter. Warm up with movement, not just reaching.
The Company You Keep
Dance is lonely in a way other art forms aren't. You rehearse in rooms full of people, but the work is deeply personal. That's why finding your people matters.
Find other dancers who challenge you, who ask questions you haven't thought of, who make you want to show up even when you'd rather quit. Some of my best choreography has come from three-hour conversations with a musician at 2 AM, figuring out how to make silence move.
Your network is your net worth in dance—sometimes literally.
Recording Isn't Just Narcissism
Watching yourself dance is brutal. It's supposed to be.
One of my teachers made us record every single week and journal about what we saw—not what we felt, what we saw. After two years, I could trace my progress in ways my memory couldn't lie about.
Here's the trick: watch with the sound off first. Notice your lines, your weight, your timing. Then watch with sound. Notice where you're reacting to the music versus anticipating it. These are different things.
Where Inspiration Comes From
I don't wait for inspiration anymore. That's a lie that keeps dancers stuck.
I make moves first—bad moves, stupid moves, moves that make me laugh at myself. And then, somewhere in the middle of making a hundred bad moves, one good one emerges. That's where inspiration actually lives. It's not lightning. It's excavation.
Watch everything. Contemporary, yes—but also figure skating, contact improv, Bartenieff, animals moving, children running. Your inspiration has no walls.
The Long Game
Nobody wants to hear this, but it takes years. Not months. Not one workshop. Years.
Set micro-goals. This month, I want a cleaner contraction. This month, I want to stop gripping my jaw. Celebrate the tiny wins you can't see, because those are the ones that compound.
Your path doesn't look like anyone else's. That's the point.
The Thing They Can't Teach
Your technique is learnable. Your voice isn't.
What makes you different isn't how you execute a phrase—it's what you're trying to say with it. The riskiest thing you can do is get specific. Try to say something real with your dancing, even if nobody understands but you.
That's what makes contemporary dance different from other forms. The point isn't perfection. The point is you—honestly, specifically, uncomfortably you.
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The Secret No One Tells You
The more I dance, the less I know how to describe what I do. I used to think that was a problem. Now I think it might be the point.
Go move. Stop planning. Just go.
