Kristi Gold eBooks

In all honesty, not once in my youth did I ever aspire to be a writer. During my formative years, my passion was dancing, from tap to jazz to ballet. Particularly ballet. From the age of six until I was approaching thirteen, I took lessons four days a week, sometimes two to three lessons per day. Add that to school, church choir and cheerleading practice, and my routine began to resemble a corporate mogul's hectic schedule. That routine began to take its toll not only on me, but on my mother as well—the designated chauffeur. Something had to give. I chose to quit ballet despite the fact that I had been moved to the "big girl's group" that year, one of two of the youngest students in a more advanced class. But I'd been on pointe for two years, my feet hurt constantly, the work was tough and required a huge effort just to keep up with the three classes a week. At the time, that choice seemed like a no-brainer, yet when the year-end recital came around—an elaborate event held at a college campus—I regretted the decision. After my tap and jazz rehearsals were over, I sat in the auditorium and watched the production of an act from Swan Lake. Had I chosen to remain in ballet, I would have been on that stage, wearing those "big girl" full-length tutus, sporting beautifully crafted make-up in the shape of swan's wings, and participating in the finale that always earned a standing ovation. I cried that day, and that night after the recital. I felt as if I'd given up too quickly on a dream, choosing instead to take the easy way out. The path of least resistance. Shortly thereafter, I gave up dancing altogether, although I thought about it often, and wondered ...