My Elephant Baby

As I descend down the rabbit hole of grant applications (chasing the rabbit with the clock) and enter the whirlwind of producing mania following my second creative development of The Last Princess of Lebanon, I’m taking this Saturday afternoon to reflect on the journey so far—the blessings, the curses, and everything that comes with the territory of making deeply personal work… solo (good lord, why?).

I’ve been incredibly fortunate during this second residency to collaborate with remarkable artists. Aleea Monsour, my dramaturg, gentle ear, and “voice therapist” (you’ll understand if you read on), has been invaluable. Samira El Koussa, my musician, Dabke and Arabic teacher, and all-around diva extraordinaire, continues to teach me just how Lebanese I truly am. Anna Whitaker, a sound design guru and dear friend, is someone I trust implicitly. Penny Challen, an exceptional and enthusiastic designer, seems capable of making anything happen. These collaborations have infused this residency with energy, propelling the work forward as I took their golden nuggets of ideas into the studio to explore further.

Sharing the work before it was finished was daunting. My inner perfectionist squirmed with each reading I gave to people I respect. But I realised that sitting on the work any longer would have been a waste of time. It’s amazing how the smallest comment can send a section in a whole new direction.

For example, Penny suggested, “What if we played with shadows?”—something I hadn’t considered. And just like that, a new movement section was born and reformed. Or when Aleea pointed out that my key motif is actually the mulberry tree, not the gumtree. Simplify, simplify, simplify. Your gal here loves a motif, but too many can muddle the message. I’ve found a delicious new challenge in scriptwriting, which demands ultimate specificity for clarity. In my dance work in the past I’ve enjoyed there being room for multiple meanings and interpretations. My mind naturally spirals through depths, incorporating many elements in a kind of cause-and-effect inception. While I love this complexity, for this work, I want to speak clearly to a broader audience. I want to use the specificity of words and theatre to deliver a message of pain and hope alongside the depth of movement. I want to speak. Which, for a dancer I think could be a huge deal—so huge that I’ve been literally losing my voice. As “woo-woo” as it sounds, I think it’s connected to my emotions as much as the strain of endless readings.

Image by Georgia Haupt

So, what’s been happening? Honestly, it’s been a rollercoaster of glee, excitement, frustration, complete perplexity, and deep fear about how this story, both mine and my family’s, will be perceived. I anticipated this weight, but as the piece starts to be shared, it’s become more challenging. How can I deliver this complex story—filled with trauma and triumph—in a not only digestible, but delicious way, in today’s turbulent environment of excessive and often distressing information? How do I do that within the space of a short month-long residency, while juggling life and everything else that a solo show demands? Each day presents a new task or problem I didn’t know existed. For instance, I didn't know many venues lock in their programs more than a year in advance and this often doesn’t align with funding rounds. And the incredible art to wording an email that’s friendly, personable, and gets things done without being presumptuous. I don’t know how anyone does it. I don’t know how I’m doing it. Am I doing it? I can say I’ve been completely obsessed with the creative process, pouring my heart into pages, getting absorbed to the point of forgetting basic things like drinking water. It feels like prolonged labour—giving birth to this creative child. Sometimes, I have restless nights, getting up to scribble in my diary or write strange poetry in my phone notes. Thoughts come at inconvenient times, and I often lose them. It feels like life is too busy to be an artist. Lately, I feel like if I had my way, I would just drop everything and become a recluse.

However, I’m blessed with many incredible creative friends, and I do take refuge in their company. Watching them shine, all doing it their own way despite the challenges, is both incredibly inspiring and sometimes a little worrying. Burnout is everywhere. I’m told it’s getting harder, especially since COVID, though the issues pre-date the pandemic. Artists, especially independents, are struggling. The world is speeding up - there’s a real theory about it Jade Brider tells me (my favourite existential girly) the earth’s rotation is literally speeding up - science fr. This kind of crazed fast pace often directly opposes the creative process itself, which requires boredom. Who has time for boredom?! Oh, how I long for it. The last time I remember being bored was as a kid, hanging out in Dalby on a summer afternoon during school holidays. I’d say, “There’s nothin’ to do in this town” (I had a much broader accent then, which I realised when reading old journals—don’t know how many times I said “reckon,” but it was a lot). I wish I knew then how precious that nothingness was. I try to steal moments of it when I can—taking a stroll on the beach or through the forest, though lately, my mind races as I do so, and I have to remind myself to take in what I’m seeing. I’ve been meditating every morning with Margi Brown Ash’s Sangha fro Artists, which has been an anchoring lifeline for me. My morning ritual includes meditating, vitamins, and rolling out my persistent plantar fasciitis—an overuse injury I’m still trying to shake (Chant, my physio, I hope you’re reading this). I’ve been lifting weights, because as a freelance dancer I still have to maintain a level of fitness to jump into a show at any moment, but also for my mental health. I get some sense of control (in a life that otherwise feels often out of my control) from seeing small improvements in numbers each week - although I hate the fluorescent lighting and teenage boy smell. On Sundays, I’ve started writing lists that plan every hour of my day, Monday to Sunday. I try to give myself weekends, but that rarely happens. Sometimes my days feel like one giant, never-ending to-do list, like I’m a cowboy lassoing my brain from creative to logical and back again (I naturally sit in the creative, so lassoing the logic is more like taming a bull). As I said, I long for boredom.

But whinging aside, the good thing about roller coasters is the thrill. I’ve always loved rollercoasters actually. I’ve always liked a challenge, which is one of the things that drew me to dancing—the absolute rigour and physical release. What’s kept me in the arts, though, is the questioning and reimagining of new futures. I so believe in what I and my peers do. I believe in this project and what I’m trying to say—which I’m rediscovering every day. Refining, refining, refining. Fighting with myself to allow the process to take time, even with money, momentum, expectations, deadlines, career goals, and timelines hanging over me. I keep coming back to this question, and I ask it of all my fellow #strugglingartists: What’s it all for if there isn’t any joy? I mean, is our art really worth killing ourselves over? As important as I think it is, it’s not that important. Maybe the reality is that we need to take more time. We might make less work, but we need to value ourselves and what it costs. We need to connect more. My god, if this solo work has taught me anything, it’s that. Let’s not do this alone. It’s not only less productive; it’s kind of depressing.

A dear friend, artist and producer extraordinaire Sandi Woo (who often talks me down from a nervous spin) said to me, “Nadia, it’s the fallacy of a solo work! It’s never solo!” It’s impossible. We think it’s cheaper, but at what cost? While this process has been “good” for me, and I’ve learned so much, I don’t think I’ll ever do it again. Please, if I do, somebody stop me. I think I could have learned more quickly if I’d done it together with others. Then again, funding structures and industry demands rarely support this kind of work. And if you can’t sell your work, you can’t sustainably make it. So here we are. (Is the real fallacy the idea of sustainability? We’ll find out.) 

I likened it to having a child earlier; this is my “elephant child”—thank you, Jacob Watton. She’s a big bubba. I think Nathan Sibthorpe would call it a “Horcrux” work—a little piece of my soul, my he[art] under stage lights. Ironically, my friends are starting to have real babies right now, and as I comfort them through their morning sickness and back pain, I feel weirdly connected to them through my creative process, my elephant baby. It’s painful sometimes, but we do it because of what it can offer us and, hopefully, the world if we raise it right. What I’m trying to do now is take one step forward and then another. Trying not to forget to drink water. Stealing moments to stretch in the sunshine. Taking myself to new places to enjoy the journey of making. Why not embrace solving the puzzle? 

Nobody really wants to deliver their baby alone. I’m so grateful this second development has involved new artists, fresh eyes, and so many wonderful peers and mentors championing me as I push and deep breathe through it all. So many people reach out their hands, and as I write this blog, I realise just how many—too many to mention. There have been times I’ve wanted to run away, but these small encouragements and acts of kindness pull me back in. I think, okay, let’s go. I throw down my sweat towel like a rhythmic gymnast (seriously watch those videos, amazing) and staunch my way into the rink, pushing away the fear of complete audacity, imposter syndrome, and all the likes of “Who does she think she is?” and I tell myself: You’re just trying to make art that changes the world, okay? And then I laugh, because why not?

Art, Identity, and Connection: Reflections

I recently spent 10 days in the UK, dedicated to expanding my artistic practice and benchmarking my developing auto-biographical solo work. This opportunity was made possible thanks to The City of Gold Coast and Art’s Queensland. Here's a glimpse of my experiences and the thoughts that arose during my trip:

I landed in a surprisingly sunny London and took the train straight to The Place to see a work in development from two female artists in residence. We were each offered a cool cordial on entry to the bright loft-like studio space and told if it was too hot we could step outside (one summer’s day breaking the poor unprepared Brits). The comedic duo of dancers took us through the journey of a pregnancy inside a ‘womb party’ including drinking games, balloons and teamwork from the audience. My friend Hannah, who I’d met years before at a dance intensive in Spain, sat beside me. Together we pondered the challenges women face in their ongoing struggle for autonomy over their bodies and reproductive rights. It's been just a few hours since I arrived in London, and I'm already reminded of how much I love this city.

The rest of my trip followed a similar pattern. I raced through London, hitting major venues like The Old Vic, National Theatre, Tate Modern, and the National Galleries. Then, I took the train to Woolwich to see some of the final shows of Punchdrunk's Burnt City. This sprawling warehouse space felt like stepping into a video game with its post-apocalyptic and ethereal rooms. Even after three hours of exploration, I still missed so many spaces and talented performers. Similarly spectacular, was my visit to the Kit Kat Club in the West End, where I witnessed their epic Cabaret. This performance seamlessly blended contemporary dance with jazzy cabaret theatre. I found myself perched high up in the elaborately ornate theatre in the round, completely absorbed in a hedonistic celebration of post-World War I and pre-World War II Germany. It was a stark reminder of our fragile connection to peace, particularly given recent global events.

From there, I boarded a train bound for Brighton, a quirky coastal city brimming with an eclectic arts culture that mirrors its iconic Palace Pier Fair. I spent a week with a beautiful bunch of artists working with powerhouse theatre-maker, Bryony Kimmings, on her rigorous process of developing auto-biographical solo work. She promoted a system of giving and receiving feedback from the start of the creative process. This runs counter to the instincts of artists like myself, who prefer to hide their work until it's perfectly polished. Bryony’s culture of ‘care and share’ really resonated with me. In pushing our fragile ideas out of the nest to fly, or fall, we can create our most meaningful and significant work. Plus, we can support each other to do it.

Back in London I felt the same supportive energy at the Cockpit’s monthly Scratch Night. Here artists can present a quick pitch-like version of their show and receive direct critical feedback from the audience. Audiences were supportive and generous, made up of either theatre enthusiasts or artists themselves. It was wholesome and the strong sense of community and passion for arts filled me with similar enthusiasm. Aside from the epic, what was interesting and appealing to audiences was the personal and vulnerable. As Bryony aptly put it, “People are interested in YOU”. The artist, the person. An interesting reminder of our innate sense of compassion and our deep desire for connection that the arts elicit from us all.   

Photo by Kate Taylor

In today's world, marked by polarised opinions, biassed media algorithms, fake news, and a growing sense of social disconnection, people are yearning for authentic stories and experiences. They crave a sense of unity. It's not surprising that I observed many artists, like myself, reconnecting with their unique cultural heritage and sense of place, aspects that were once silenced. As I’ve delved into writing the story of my Lebanese great grandmother's journey to acceptance in Australia over the past year, I rediscovered the inherent ties to my Lebanese heritage. There's a profound sense of belonging that emerges when we embrace our cultural traditions. For me, preparing my family's tabouli or hummus recipe fills me with a bubbling sense of pride, as if some of my ancestors are present with me. This feeling lingers and provides a sense of calm, something often missing in modern Western culture, where individualism tends to be idealised.

During my creative process with Bryony's group, the question I posed that resonated the most deeply with others was: "Why doesn't my body feel like my own?" Many shared this sense of disconnect or a lack of ownership over their bodies. There are likely many reasons for this, but one I've been considering is how part of us is connected to our ancestors. We are the cumulative result of generations past. Healing and understanding ourselves and each other involves acknowledging and appreciating our shared history.

It’s interesting that London, the capital of the country which played perhaps the largest role in white-washing the world, is now one of the world’s most culturally diverse cities. Beautiful stories about unique identities, experiences and cultural histories seem to be ever popular and important to its public. My last day in London I saw the Marina Abramovic exhibition at the Royal Academy of the Arts. One of my all time favourite artists, her work has received acclaim for its radical questioning through daring physical risk performance art. It’s also deeply, shockingly personal. Across her lifespan of work shown in the exhibition she exposes her body, her relationship with her partner, her parents, her Serbian heritage, her sexuality, and her uniquely close connection with her audiences. People flocked to the gallery to glimpse Marina the person, the artist. Her vulnerability has become her superpower. 

As I return home and continue writing my own auto-biographical show, I carry this inspiration with me. While spectacular sets, virtuosic bodies, and exciting collaborations can lead to exceptional work, at its core, great art thrives in honest storytelling. The courage to reveal the personal, to lay bare the complexities and uniqueness of our true selves, can touch the heart of what we all seek— a deeper sense of connection.

A Land Alone

I watch her slowly drift towards sleep while she sits in the morning sun. The dappled light filtering through the trees dances around her as though animating what I can imagine are her thoughts, a mix of gentle nothings, loose ends moving around one another, nothing ever fixing, always untethered and free. I wonder where she goes inside her mind, what that place looks like… is it black and cavernous or wildly colourful? It used to seem a dark place at times, perhaps when she had more awareness of where her mind was wandering, or waning. But now she appears more calm, like the place inside her head is somewhere she prefers to be. She has only three worries. Where is her purse (her money, and independence), her house (her security and comfortability) and of course, the dog. Has the dog been fed? My grandma lived with her dog, (the one before this one but we don’t tell her that of course), for many years alone. An only child growing up she enjoyed her solitude. She was the ultimate introvert and always exclaimed she didn’t like people so much, animals were her preferred companions. She raised five beautiful and strong-headed daughters mostly on her own - my grandfather was often away for business reasons, a chronic workaholic, making money was his primary goal in life. A social expectation of the time although he says he regrets some of these choices now. My grandma took this all in her stride. Her life was her family. So when her daughters grew and moved away to have their own families, and her marriage met a painful end, she certainly preferred the company of her dogs. Her door was always open to her clan and we visited regularly, especially while us grandkids were young. But time passed and the visits became less frequent as distances between homes grew and lives became more busy. We all feel guilty now, thinking about this time that slipped between our fingers. I know my mum does especially. We lived three hours from grandma and she had myself and my two brothers to manage. It was so easy for my mum to not see her own mother slowly drift into this land she now lives in, alone. 

I find it morbidly ironic that now my grandma is getting the most time she ever has had with her daughters. She rotates between their homes, each daughter sharing the responsibility of her care which is 24/7 attention - including night shifts. She can’t be left alone for more than a minute or so, requiring constant reassurance of where she is, and why. All of this time together, only now she is somewhere else, somewhere inside herself. Her goldfish memory can be upsetting. I watch her as a thought bubbles to the surface and she tries to put this into words. Sometimes her thoughts are clear, usually, “What happened to MY house” or “When am I going home?”. In other words, I want my independence again. Other times the words come jumbled or stuttered and are incomprehensible. Then she gives up and retreats back inside herself again. Goes to that unknown place you can’t follow her into.

I think the only one who can follow her there is the dog. The large soft eyes of the little caramel chihuahua crossbreed, Honey, seem knowing as it sits dutifully on her lap or at her feet. Honey curls into a ball within the curve of her hip or lies herself across her legs. A comfort blanket for my grandma whose body remembers this feeling of safety and companionship most. A reminder of the power of physical memory. I’ve taken to placing my hand across her shoulder while we sit together, giving her a gentle rub across her back, or giving her hand a squeeze when I speak with her so that her eyes meet mine and she knows we’re friendly even though she can’t recognise me. I’ll always give her a kiss on the forehead to greet her in the morning or evening at dinner to which she always replies with a warm smile and sweet “thank-you” which melts my heart every time, without fail. She enjoys getting her nails painted and her hair brushed and blow-dried and these acts of kindness, of ultimate role reversals for mother and daughter, are met with bittersweet emotions. My mum who still works full time, now cares for her mother on her sparse time off. This time in her life post-motherhood that’s supposed to be about reclamation of self and independence has been reverted into care-land again. I can see the emotional toll it has taken on her, although she won’t give it much voice. The strain it has placed on her whole family and the deepening complexity of their relationships. Look, it’s tough. 

I admire their persistence to care for their mother on their own, and resist putting her in an aged care home where they know the introvert will not be comfortable. Distressed and at risk of being forgotten. This is the reality for many families, maybe those who simply cannot cope with the full-time care requirements, who still have young families or not enough family around to help out. How do we care for our elderly, who seemed to have slipped through the cracks of our fast-paced, productivity-mad society? I can’t help but ask myself this with a sense of despair yet hope that things will change inevitably. 

I sit with my grandma in the afternoon sun, in silence. I’ve stopped trying to engage her in conversation these days. She just gets distressed. Instead we share the sunshine together as I rub small circles across her shoulders. I feel myself settling, my energy dropping down a notch towards hers. Honey takes a big yawn and stretches out before us. We listen to the birds together and watch the light dance around us freely. She stirs beside me and I turn my focus towards her eyes. She says, “Where’s MY house. When am I going home?” I reply, “This is your home now, you live here with us, don’t worry we’re looking after you because we love you very much.” She looks at me with that melting smile, “Thank-you”. 

Cleopatra’s New Legacy

I’m fascinated by female archetypes - the maiden, mother, witch, serpent - all of Her many forms. I often wonder how much we’ve really progressed. Do these archaic images still exist in the way we view and treat women? The way I have been viewed and treated? The way I view myself?

Sex and Power 

I just finished playing Cleopatra in an immersive theatre show called The Time Travel Cafe. Inside the cafe audiences are able to engage with different characters from history as the performance happens around them. Cleopatra discusses fear, desire, pleasure and power. I wanted to use this opportunity to explore the questions I had about femininity and sexuality. To see how people engaged with her mix of masculine dominance, fierceness and feminine allure. Most often, I have been approached with questions about Cleo’s sex life, her beauty and power…over men. This is her supposed legacy. One particularly memorable patron grabbed my attention across the space with a great manspread. I felt his eyes before I heard his words. He was sitting next to his wife, delicately perched beside him, and confidently leered in to ask loudly enough for everyone to hear, “So, did you have sex with Marc Antony?”. He was certainly not the first to ask that question but his eyes looked me up and down in his delivery. I still wonder what those words were really saying, they felt laden with intention as they crawled over my skin. Was it to confirm to him that I do have sex and humour his fantasy image? Is it just an excuse to discuss the image of my sexuality as an item of his pleasure, rightfully there for his judgement? Or was it another comment blurted out in the excitement of the moment because it’s the one fact he knew about Cleopatra? This was a power play - intentional or not. Because historically women like Cleopatra have been reduced to just their sexuality alone and what I want to know is, aren’t we tired of this narrative? Because in my eyes it exists to strip me of my power. To strip me of my pleasure as if to say it was never mine to begin with. 

Pleasure Theory and the Villainess 

In the show Cleo talks about the importance of pleasure. Immediately people assume I’m talking solely about sex - unsurprising given the world’s obsession with it, particularly when beautiful women are involved. She says, “I used pleasure not swords to secure Egypt’s security”. Before going on to describe the many forms of pleasure - colour, creativity “life’s delicacies” that really won Marc Antony and the freedom of Egypt under her command. But before I could get to this point a woman said to me and her husband “That’s what Amber did”. 

Until now I'd decidedly ignored the Amber and Johnny Depp trial because I don’t enjoy the public display and sensationalisation of a domestic abuse case between two people. It was too uncomfortable to witness. I, like so many women who’ve been subject to sexual abuse in one form or another, found it sickening to watch the tearing down of Amber’s character - the careful but unavoidably aggressive pulling apart of her personality, hanging it to dry like meat on a butcher’s hook for the world to judge. And boy did they. So, I haven’t followed the whole trial, I don’t trust that it would be a display of justice - because when in history has it ever been easy for a woman in that position? But this article is not to discuss who’s right, who’s wrong, or the real “truth”. Because like anything in life things are never black and white. I am disappointed in the result. Not just of the court trial, but for the world as a whole, I’ll tell you why. 

Amber has become a villain because she (at least in this woman’s eyes) used her sexuality for her advantage. A successful and beautiful actress, an already glorified figure, needed this man’s money apparently and to claim it she used the only power she has: her beauty. The apparent male Achilles heel! And for that she deserves the ultimate punishment. 

Image By Martin Ingle for the Time Travel Cafe 2022

An Unfortunate Legacy 

This is the unfortunate narrative that we spit out time and time again. Perhaps since Eve herself lured Adam with her shiny apple causing the doom of humanity for eternity. We did it to Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, Kimmy K. It’s all the same. Women who choose to embrace their sexuality and use the power of their image to their advantage get a particular serving. I’ll admit I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to hide mine. Trying to escape the leering eyes and wandering judgements of men and women alike - I've experienced the narrative that men are mad when they can’t have you, and women are mad they can’t be you. In that narrative nobody wins, least of all the woman in the light. Monroe, although glorified, was also beaten for her public display of sexuality and very literally beaten by her husband. We laugh at Kim Kardashian for the very reason we worship her, even still when she was publicly abused by Kanye as though she somehow deserved his spray. Madonna’s image was equally a sex icon as it was satanic one. These examples send a stark message that we are not as progressive as we may believe. We have a long way to go towards conquering our internalised misogyny that is cemented in these female archetypes.  

I knew I would face this every night when I performed Cleopatra, but now I realise why I chose her or what she has taught me. Because Cleopatra’s true history (not the one written by male historians and movie directors) when uncovered, sends a message that women can have both power and pleasure. That sexuality doesn’t define them completely but can still be a strong part of them - and that’s the clincher. I somehow felt that I could be above my sexuality and undefined by it by removing it completely from the equation - but is that freedom? Must a woman choose between pleasure and power? Can’t I be free to embrace all parts of myself and use them as my unique offerings to the world? 

A New Narrative 

Cleo’s ending in reality was like any other war hero of the era. Ultimately the Romans conquered. Christianity conquered. And along with it vanished any chance of female (and sexual) freedom for some time. But we are always evolving. Things are changing. Can we abolish our negative sex culture - with all its fear and shame - and the demonisation of female sexuality that has so rootedly decided our history? I believe so. But we have to work at it, starting with ourselves. We have to find Cleopatra’s boldness. Her unashamed and unapologetic embrace of who she is - a vessel of power and pleasure alike. A true force to be reckoned with.

How to be human when you treat your body as a machine

When I first started writing this article about a year ago I had just sat in a Zoom call with three other creative practitioners and performers - three women - as we discussed the complicated relationships we had with our bodies. I’d looked down at my broken foot and then across at my desk where my recent bone scan lay as an uncomfortable reminder. 

I thought about my doctor telling me only a few hours before, “You have low bone density, your spine is showing signs of osteopenia”. I thought about the last 6 years I’d spent blindly overtraining my under-fuelled body; about how I took pride in testing my limits and pushing myself to breaking point over and over again. 

I knew then it was a time to listen, really listen, to these women and to my body. 

In their gentle company I faced a confronting truth: I treated my body like a machine rather than a home. And this beautiful, incredible machine was showing signs of wear and tear. After years of abuse it was beginning to malfunction.  

That moment triggered a long reflection on all the health advice I had been given when seeing doctors over the years. I’d been told that it was  “normal” as a female dancer or athlete to lose my period, and if I wanted to bleed I could go on the pill - essentially ignore or mask the issue rather than fix the underlying problem. One doctor had once told me that if I wasn’t menstruating, I had low oestrogen and this would be weakening my bones. Her solution was to stop training and put on, at the very least, 5kg. But this was a scary thought. 

I find it ironic that as a scrawny kid growing up I desperately wanted more curves, but as a dancer I was always given praise for my thin figure. I remember a teacher telling me as I was approaching auditions for tertiary training, “Don’t worry, they’ll accept you because of your body”. It wasn’t what my body could do, it was what it looked like. Only now can I see just how much I had slowly begun to attach some form of identity and success to my adolescent body - not being thin wouldn’t just subtract from my value as a dancer, it wouldn’t be me at all. I was rejecting the change my body naturally needed to move through as a woman. 

A Release Photo by Matt Stewart

Fast forward into the rush of tertiary training, I became addicted to the endorphins of exercise and getting “faster, better, stronger”. I was not ready to give up all the hard work just so that I could start bleeding again. I saw the blood as a nuisance and an unnecessary pain. I felt a strange sense of pride in being able to beat my bodily system. So instead of stopping, I listened to the male doctors and told myself “I feel fine, I look fine, no period is convenient, no worries”. I continued making my body less woman, more machine. 

I coupled this with the mindset that I should always work harder: whether it be extra training, extra rehearsals or extra work. A lecturer of mine told us in our first year that “dancers always take the stairs”. He was referring to the literal act (because 6-12 hours of training a day wasn’t enough we needed to climb up every flight of stairs we saw) but I had taken on this ethos wholeheartedly. I had heard the resounding message: rest is just missed opportunities. 

My body responded in backlash. My stomach would twist into knots, I felt bloated more often than not (not fun when you’re wearing a leotard and tights all day). I went to a GP who recommended a nutritionist to treat what was described as my IBS symptoms. My goal was not to lose weight, but on her food plan I lost 5kgs in less than two months. I told her I was a dancer and I remember her saying she would “adjust my level of intake accordingly” - she specialised in dancer’s nutrition (apparently). The portion sizes were basically half of the amount I was eating at the time. Blindly following this plan in an attempt to do the right thing, the increased stress on my body left me a prime target for glandular fever which made me lose more weight which I couldn’t put back on. Nor did I want to. It seemed my shedding was earning me praise. The most uncomfortable memory of that experience for me was when I was asked by friends for my diet plan so that they too could have this unhealthy but somehow prized thin figure.

To add to the sting, nothing I’d done had worked to ease the painful symptoms, my stomach still twisted. Stress had been the real aggressor. All my food calculations had only worsened it. I became obsessed with rigorously logging in my food diary every day, eliminating and reintroducing foods as suggested. Gluten, dairy, pears, apples… the list seemed endless. I soon felt the impact on my mental health. I longed for the days when food and exercise didn’t consume me but it seemed so far away. 

To put into context what this looked like from the outside: I usually ate three meals or more a day. I didn’t specifically calorie count and loathed the idea of crazy fad diets. I wasn’t overly self conscious or ashamed of the way I looked and although quite thin, was never dangerously underweight. My blood tests showed up fine each time (fun fact: calcium draws from the bones to feed the bloodstream). BUT I suffered from an eating disorder. My illness seemed invisible, deemed as normal by my friends, peers and even family who I was living and eating with at the time. On the outside it appeared as just a conscientiousness towards eating healthy and exercising. My over-analysing was masked as motivation. I saw this work as something that was required of a professional dancer or someone who cared about their physical fitness. It was the deal I had signed up for, the burden I chose to grin and bear. I hadn’t once considered it an illness, only a necessity. 

I remember learning about anorexia in year nine at school. I particularly remember a powerpoint presentation of young girls that look like skeletons staring into a mirror and believing they were fat despite being only bone. I asked myself how anyone could do that to themselves. Now I understand it more broadly. I see anorexia when I look at fitspo instagram influencers, models or even athletes. People we admire, praise and congratulate for their self harm. We have normalised and even encouraged this unhealthy and unnatural behaviour.

I shudder to think how many girls and women are unknowingly in that same place. 

It wasn’t until I really recognised that change would mean more “success” that I began to reconsider my ways. I decided I had to unpack myself, uncoil the spiral, by reconsidering everything I thought was right - my appearance, work output, thought patterns. I would embrace what I called my ‘soft body’. Embrace rest. See success in doing nothing. See achievement in letting go. I took my lust for a challenge and reversed it - what if I don’t train today AND tomorrow? What if today I eat whatever I feel like and be proud of myself for it? What if I take a whole day off and feel damn good about it? Not just because I “deserve it” like consumerist culture tells me, but because I really need it. It didn’t take long at all for my body to thank me in a release of red fluid. My IBS symptoms retreated into the shadows. I watched my body transform with this strange mix of fear and pride. I challenged myself to accept however I looked and instead consider how I felt. 

In regaining my cycle, my connection to my body, I noticed side effects I didn’t expect. I could recognise uncomfortable emotions with more clarity and was able to deal with them more effectively. I noticed when I was over-fatigued or anxious. I could stop, slow down, rejuvenate and avoid the stomach turns. I would always feel much stronger and more capable soon after. I was surprised by the great surges of creativity, reflectiveness and profound moments of clarity that followed these inward moments. Most important of all, I felt a confidence slowly grow within me, one that was deep and firm as it came from a place of self-knowing and compassion.

I realised that the person who knows my body best, is me. 

Food diaries, bad diet plans, excessive training habits and unhealthy body image ideologies were fed to me by professionals and peers in my formative years. I had absorbed it all like a sponge and now I was rinsing myself out. Along with the anger, fear and disbelief at how stupidly wrong the world, and I, can be sometimes. I came to accept that it would take time to rewire my brain. To sit with myself patiently and embrace the change unfolding in my body, mind and heart. 

My doctor said in my final check up for my foot that when you break a bone, the calcification in the healing process means that the bone is thicker for some time afterwards. I see this as how I am now. I’m aware of where I’ve been and where I am. It has now been over a year since I started bleeding again, my bone density is increasing, and I see the injury I incurred at that point in time as life teaching me an important lesson... or lessons.

I know that warped image I had of what I should do, and should be, is far behind me and that I am much better for it. Most importantly, I’m learning to truly appreciate the experience of living within this magnificent human body. 

What I like to remember now most from that Zoom call a year ago, was looking at the faces on my screen and seeing three women in completely different stages of life - youth, motherhood and menopause. As they spoke about the challenges they faced, mourning the loss of their previous bodies after pregnancy, ageing and hormonal shifts, I realised that my recent experience of bodily change is one I would meet again. 

Like a turning of seasons or a shifting of the tides, we find ourselves in constant transformation. Do we acknowledge this change as beautiful or do we fear it? 

I was leaving past frustrations with my body - the inconvenient blood and pain, physical inferiority, emotional turbulence - for a new image of myself. One which realised how its changeable nature could lead to a greater ability to accept, understand and grow.