Tiny Dancer

“Confidence looks best with bows on top.”

I’m sitting outside dance class, peeking through the windows like a nosy old lady at HOA meetings. And there she is—Sis, looking way too grown for my liking. Today she insisted on “space buns,” which I dutifully executed and then topped off with matching Disney princess bows. Purple leotard, skirt twirling, a little extra sparkle in her cheeks because yes, she asked for eyeshadow and blush. My girl wanted full glam, and I wasn’t about to stop her.

And then? The social butterfly takeover began. Because of my anxiety, we showed up stupid early (better fifteen minutes early than one minute late). Good thing, too, because she became the unofficial greeter of the dance world. “Hey, do you wanna play?” she chirped at every kid walking in. Bounce to the left, bounce to the right, making sure no one was left out. It wasn’t a warm-up. It was a campaign rally.

Once class started, she moved that little awkward body with full-blown confidence. Each new step, each spin—it didn’t matter if it looked a little funky, she owned it. And I sat there thinking about my own days at Shelly’s School of Dance, the smell of old recital costumes and the thrill of nailing a tap move. It was my second home, my sanctuary. Seeing her love it the same way? Damn, that’s the good stuff. That’s when I finally understood why parents shove their kids into “their” hobbies. It’s not about control—it’s about joy. It’s fun as hell to have something in common.

And watching Sis in her bows and blush, leading her little pack? I’ve never been more proud.