By Gabby Uy, Year 10
People often talk about self-love like it’s some kind of magic bullet. Be yourself and the right people will love the real you. Believe in yourself and your dreams will come true. Love yourself first and maybe, just maybe, your two word-long Chemistry I.A. will write the rest of itself for you before the deadline at 11:59 p.m. tonight.
Now that’s all well and good, but what they don't tell you is that being comfortable in your own skin is hard - especially when that skin is an ugly amalgamation of eczema, Red Skin Syndrome and MRSA.
Long story short: In January 2015, my immune system decided that it wanted to attack absolutely everything and I conveniently became allergic to the things I loved most. My skin would burn and crack and flare like a stoplight every time I danced, swam or - God forbid - ate pizza, so I did what anyone would do when confronted with red on a highway: I stopped.
But the problem was that I didn’t stop loving ballet. It was how I had defined myself, what I had done for ten hours each week for ten years of my life. So in those first few months, I’d stretch as soon as I got home, do crunches in the bathroom and avoid gluten, dairy and half a million other allergens like the plague in the hopes of retaining my flexibility and dancing again as soon as possible. However, unlike pirouettes and grands jetés, there are things that can’t be fixed with steely determination alone - and my condition was one of them. Medicine only made things worse; at one point, I couldn't even smile or bend my arms without tearing skin. The healing cycle went one step forward, two steps back and after five long months of this, it finally dawned on me that there was no way I would be able to dance anytime soon... or ever again, for that matter.
So things got bad fast. I had given up everything - ballet, swimming, even chocolate - but the raw red welts on my arms still refused to leave. My frustration soured into resentment; I was angry at the universe for literally distorting my face beyond iPhoto recognition and angry at myself for not being able to pick myself up and dust myself off for a reason as stupid as being allergic to dust. I saw myself as a “had been” - I had been a dancer, I had been a swimmer, I had been a baker and a painter and an avid pizza eater. Left with no visible aspirations or talents, I defined myself with self-deprecating sarcasm; I was what I could not do. And loving yourself is hard when you don't know what you're supposed to be loving.
I’ve always been an insecure person, so I was desperate to prove to the world that I hadn't let my illness take over my life the way it did my appearance. For all the wrong reasons, I ruthlessly threw myself into my studies, replacing late night choreography sessions with late night CrashCourse episodes and later, late night procrastination on a National History Day exhibit that ended up taking me halfway across the world. I stretched myself figuratively, by joining MUN and writing for Winston. Into these things I poured all of my energy and my rage, my ambition and my self-doubt - but ultimately, it wasn’t external validation that turned my life around.
Rather, what actually led to lasting happiness was the reignited fire of purpose and passion that had lain dormant ever since I last took off my pointe shoes. School became my True North and my anchor; it reconnected me with my past and pulled me ahead into the future. I was able to move on, if only in a different direction.
Sure, my life changed because I lost my flexibility and because I lost my speed in the pool - but more than that, it changed because I didn’t lose myself. Not my optimism, not my ambition and not even my Perfectionist Ballerina Grit. And this time, I’ve learned to accept my flaws, let go and live life to the fullest.
There are still rebound flare-up days when I look into the mirror and feel scared and frustrated all over again, so unless you’re looking for a dairy free granola recipe, I don’t have much advice on happiness. But I will tell you this, in case life hits you so hard you forget:
You’re not invincible - but that doesn’t mean you’re weak, either. I know I’m not.
You’re so much more than the sum of your shortcomings, or even your talents and achievements. I know I am.
Finally, your glass may be half empty, but it will always be yours for the filling. I know mine is - and I hope you do, too.
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