The Spill Babes

I started doing barre again because I was bored. That’s the honest answer. I wish I could say it was some cinematic “rediscovering my inner child” moment, but no. I’ll be honest, I’ve been spiraling postgrad. The past few months have been spent with me applying to different companies, not hearing back from them, and growing self doubt. I realized I was losing myself again. So there I was, on my third cup of cold brew, watching a girl on TikTok do pliés in matching sets, and thought: I used to do that. I could do that again.

So I grabbed my yoga mat out, pulled on some leggings that were 100% not squat-proof, and queued up a YouTube video with a thumbnail that screamed, “I’m smiling in this photo but you won’t be after 10 minutes!”

The first time I did it, my thighs betrayed me instantly. Every muscle in my body was like, “Oh you thought we remembered how to do this? That’s cute.” I was shaking like someone who’s about to shit themselves in a horror movie.

But after the pain? After the weird, almost religious experience of holding a relevé for 30 seconds while wondering if my legs were actively detaching from my body? There was this… peace. And I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it.

Ballet was my first love. My first obsession. I was the kid who stretched during commercial breaks, who practiced pirouettes on kitchen tile, who cried over recital costumes like it was the Met Gala. But somewhere along the way, like everything else growing up eats alive, I dropped it.

Too busy. Too tired. Too afraid of not being good at it anymore.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you about growing up: Once you hit a certain age, everything you do is supposed to have a purpose. It has to be productive. Profitable. Perfectly curated.

So I quit the things I used to love. Because I wasn’t training to go pro. Because it didn’t help grow a resume. Because it felt selfish to take up space doing something that only existed to make me happy.

And now, here I am at 22. Post-college, post-everything-I-thought-I-wanted. Floating in that weird, existential in-between where everyone’s LinkedIn makes it look like they’ve “found themselves” and I can barely find the energy to answer a text.

So I started practicing ballet again. Just to fill the time. Just to remember.

But something weird is happening. Every time I go into plié, I feel more like myself than I have in years. Not the version of me that’s hustling, pleasing, pretending, but the core. The little girl who did this just because it lit something up inside her.

Turns out, revisiting something you loved before the world told you who to be? That’s not a hobby. That’s a spiritual reckoning. I didn’t expect a plié to gut me like that. I didn’t expect sweating in a sports bra to become a ritual. I didn’t expect something so simple to make me feel like I was crawling my way back to me.

Because when you’re in your early twenties, it feels like you’re constantly trying to answer one question: “Who the hell am I now?” It’s my favorite part of being in my twenties and also my least favorite. I don’t have the full answer. I still eat cereal for dinner and spiral over trying to not sound bitchy over text or email. But I know I’m someone who still dances. And maybe that’s enough.

And this blog? That started the same way. Just a way to pass the time. Just me talking to the void. But maybe every word I write, every sentence I shape, is another step closer to myself.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like a breakthrough. Sometimes it looks like shaking through a barre workout in your bedroom. Sometimes it’s whispering to yourself, “I remember this. I remember me.”

So if you’ve been thinking about going back to something you used to love — painting, writing, singing off-key in your car — let this be your sign.

Not to be good at it. Not to monetize it. Not to post about it. Just to feel alive again.

Because sometimes, the things you do “just to pass the time” end up saving you.

Keep Spilling Babes, xx.