NDEO’s Guest Blog Series features posts written by our members about their experiences in the fields of dance and dance education. We continue this series with a post by Jessica Van Valkenburgh RSMT, Registered Somatic Movement Therapist and Director of Therapeutic Programs at FAR Therapeutic Arts and Recreation.Ěý Guest posts reflect the experiences, opinions, and viewpoints of the author and are printed here with their permission. NDEO does not endorse any business, product, or service mentioned in guest blog posts. If you are interested in learning more about the guest blogger program or submitting an article for consideration, please click here.ĚýĚýĚýĚý
The Dance of Resilience: One Woman’s Path from Pain to PurposeĚý
A Cold January Day
It was a cold day in January when I stood at the ballet barre—sweating, squeezing, and trying to remember the combination en croix of piqués and jetés as my instructor stalked around the room like a lion gazing at a row of gazelles.
“Pull up, Jessica. You look like you’re pregnant,” she muttered with disgust.
I shifted my body back, trying desperately to reorganize the cells and tissues of my abdomen to appear flatter and smaller—so small I didn’t exist and could disappear. Anticipating the next correction, I flushed as a tear fell from my cheek. I tried to move on to ´Ú°ů˛ą±č±čĂ©, but I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t change quickly enough. I had been found out: I was not perfect. I was not pleasing. I must have been unworthy—of love, of acceptance, of this career.
I cried all the way through grand battement while my instructor ignored me and continued to walk the room. Later, when talking to my mom, she asked:
“Why didn’t you just leave?”
My response was simple:
“I didn’t know I could.”
When Dance Was a Dream
Ever since I was a child, dance was my sanctuary—a place where I could move with grace and escape life for a world of fantasy. I twirled and turned, imagining I was the Sugarplum Fairy or a Rockette in NYC. Dance was freedom, beauty, and joy. It was where I felt most alive.
But like so many dancers, when I decided to pursue it as a career, the joy and fantasy transformed into a cancer that infected my confidence, my self-worth, and my view of myself in the world. The studio became a battlefield where my body was the enemy. Every mirror reflected my flaws. Every correction felt like a verdict: not good enough, not thin enough, not worthy—never going to make it.
The Culture of Silence
Why didn’t I leave? Because in the world of dance, leaving feels like failure. We are taught to push through pain, to sacrifice for art, to obey without question. The culture whispers: If you quit, you weren’t strong enough. So, we stay—even when our bodies ache and our hearts break.
I stayed because I believed my worth depended not only on my talent, but on the way, I looked in my leotard. I stayed because I thought perfection was the price of love. I stayed because I didn’t know another way.
After college, I danced professionally in Las Vegas, where I learned that keeping my body thin and beautiful was my meal ticket. My value was married directly to my sex appeal and appearance—over my talent. Moments where I enjoyed moving in my body were a bonus, but I was careful never to let go too much, fearful that if I felt too much pleasure or joy, I might let my guard down and once again be found out.
The Wound Beneath the Leotard
The instructor’s words that day were not the first, nor the last. Over time, they became a chorus in my head—from managers, directors, and leaders: You’re too fat. You’re not good enough. You’re not enough.
I learned to shrink—not just my body, but my voice, my dreams, my sense of self. I became an expert at disappearing in plain sight, molding myself and my art into whatever was needed in that moment. Because the artist is the art, this not only affected my dancing but spilled over into all aspects of my life: my relationships, my finances, my wellness, and my health.
The wound was not just physical; it was spiritual. Dance had been my refuge, and now it was my prison. I began to question everything: Who am I without this? What is my value if I am not perfect? The answers were terrifying because I didn’t have them yet.
The Turning Point
Healing did not happen overnight. I had to hit bottom—years of losing, failing, breaking up, and breaking down—until I stopped the chaos of asking outward and started listening inward.
It began with a whisper, a quiet realization that my body was not the enemy, and guilt for the years of abuse—both from others and from myself. I needed help. I needed therapy. I quit dancing and began to piece my life back together.
When I actually became a mother, instead of the dread I had felt that day in class about having a bigger body, I actually learned how to trust it—sacrificing everything for the child growing inside me. I wondered if I could love my body this much once my daughter was born. I became curious about how my past trauma was still living in my tissues. I sought a deeper form of therapy and began to improve the relationship I had with my body. I ached to dance again, but I was afraid to bring back those old patterns of pain.
I found Somatic Movement, began studying it, and for the first time in my life, movement was not about performance or approval; it was about presence and connection. I felt my energy pull back into me. I closed my eyes. I was home.
I learned that resilience is not about pushing harder; it’s about softening into truth. It’s about reclaiming the joy that perfection stole. Slowly, I began to dance again—not for applause, but for myself. I began to teach others that their bodies are wise, that movement can heal, that worth is not measured in the mirror.
From Pain to Purpose
Today, I work as a Somatic Movement Therapist and am the Director of a nonprofit dedicated to helping people with disabilities find healing and joy through creative arts therapies. My purpose grew from my pain. The wound became the doorway to empathy, to advocacy, to a mission bigger than myself. I found a way to turn my relationship with my body from abusive to inclusive.
My clients inspire me every day because they know exactly who they are. They are more present, embodied, and connected than I was for most of my dancing life. The impact and healing we create together is something that happens in real time, can’t be defined, and is nothing short of magic.
I tell my students what I wish someone had told me: You are enough. You can leave. You can choose joy over judgment. Dance can be a path to wholeness—not because of how it looks, but because of how it feels.
The Dance of Resilience
I still remember that January day at the barre—the sting of those words, the weight of that shame. But now, when I stand at a barre, I stand taller. Not because my abdomen is flat, but because my spirit is free. I know now that I can leave. I know now that I can stay—on my own terms.
Resilience is not the absence of pain; it is the courage to transform it, to witness enough of myself to feel it, and truly heal it. My dance is no longer about perfection. It is about presence, purpose, and the quiet power of knowing: I am worthy. I always was.
Author Bio: Director of Therapeutic Staff and Programs at FAR | Somatic Movement Therapist | Dance & Yoga Educator | Trauma-Informed Wellness Advocate Jessica Van Valkenburgh is a dynamic and compassionate leader in the fields of movement therapy, dance education, and holistic wellness. With over 25 years of experience being a dance educator, she currently serves as the Director of Therapeutic Programs at FAR, where she works directly with clients and leads offsite groups. Jessica holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Dance from Western Michigan University and has performed professionally in numerous national dance and theatre productions. Her advanced training includes Somatic Movement Therapy from the Leven Institute for Expressive Movement. Additionally, Jessica is also a RYT 500, Reiki Master and currently studying with the Mark Morris Dance for Parkinsons program. Jessica is a proud member of both the International Somatic Movement Education and Therapy Association (ISMETA) and the National Dance Educators Organization (NDEO), reflecting her commitment to professional excellence and continued growth in her field. Beyond her professional achievements, Jessica is a proud mother and a fierce advocate for the creative arts. Her work is driven by a heartfelt dedication to supporting her clients through movement, expression, and healing.
Photo credits (in order from top to bottom): Theodore Michael, Jessica Van Valkenburgh
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