My daughter, Celia, was three when I bought her her first leotard. Teeny little ballet shoes, a little tulle skirt she could pull on and off, her baby fine hair pulled up in a teeny tiny bun.

The little girl dancer brings infinite joy. You see the first signs of her personality- however stubborn, feisty, or outgoing. You catch her dancing in the mirror or performing alone in her bedroom. She dances for everyone and no one. She is herself, purely.

You never think about those days ending, or morphing into what they become later. You never, at least early on, see the bigger girl (young woman?) inside her, waiting to come out. That all comes later- hard and fast.

Walking around a dance recital after nearly eight years of my daughter dancing, I see all the little girls of the past eight years in all of its phases. I see the toddling girls, the first time in make-up girls, I see the proud-with -her-grandmother-girls, carrying a bouquet of flowers around that’s bigger than she is. I see all the girls she has known through dance and grown alongside.

And every year- I see *my* girl: sweetly self-assured, boldly talented, — authentically herself.

Dance, specifically non-competition dance, creates a different type of athlete in a young girl. It makes someone who honors her body’s capabilities, cheers on her fiends, challenges herself to learn new things. The dance athlete does not shy away from the challenge of performance, the pressure of a live show, the adrenaline rush of showtime.

I cannot explain to you how much dance has become the heartbeat of my daughter’s world. The same teacher since she was four, the same group of girls to grow with, opportunity after opportunity to show who she is through dance. It’s like I turned around and— all of a sudden— she wasn’t a little girl in a leotard anymore. As she grew taller, so did her confidence, so did her sense of self. As she perfected each move, she revealed another piece of her personality: relentless in her work, powerful in her dedication, emotional in her expression.

In all the phases of dancer my daughter has been, I’ve seen the value add up not just in the dance itself, but in the gifts it gives to her. It pours in endless love and expression, and pours out memory upon memory upon memory. The commitment of a dancer is heart-work. It exposes vulnerability, a window into who you are and how you see yourself. Dance is your safe place to land when the world is chaos around you.

As a mom, when you look around a dance recital, you see all phases of your life in front of you, too. You see yourself in the girls who pass you in giggles as much as you see in the young mom with her first-year ballerina. You see girlhood, womanhood, and motherhood intertwined so closely that the product is not just the recital itself. It’s the smiles on the face of each parent and grandparent, the tears in the mom’s eyes at the finale, the “I’m so proud of you!” exclamations that fill the hallway afterwards.

At 43, it’s easy to look upon all things with nostalgia: girlhood, early motherhood, the dance recitals behind me. But this one— it really pulled at me this year- the phases, the purity, the growth. So palpable in a room full of dancers and parents of dancers.

So while the little girl dancer turns into the young woman dancer more and more each year, I will do this:

I will *not* wish the busy nights we have to get to dance with rushed dinner or car dinner or “I’m hungry what’s for dinner?” away. I will tolerate the same song being played at full volume again and again in he living room each spring. And I will continue to appreciate the infinite joy that is the first Saturday of June. Little pink leotard or not.