Fuel Over Fear: What Dance Training Didn't Teach Me (But Should Have)

Alright, let's get real for a second. If you've ever stood in front of a dance studio mirror, caught a glimpse of yourself mid-leap, and thought "Is that what I look like?", this one's for you. 

I used to think being a "good dancer" meant being the last one standing. Always pushing. Always perfecting. Always shrinking - my body, my meals, my rest days, my voice. 

What I didn't realise was that I was shrinking everything, not just my body. 

Let's rewind. I was about 14 when my brain started giving me the "not good enough" speech on repeat. The dance world had a megaphone, and my self-esteem was... let's say, shy. Somewhere between pliés and pirouettes, I decided my body wasn't right. Not small enough, not lean enough, not enough, period. I spiralled into unhealthy behaviours, thinking I was taking control, turns out I was just fast-tracking myself to burnout and body hate. 

My school years? Full of a whole lot of misunderstanding about what my body actually needed. It wasn't just a phase, it followed me like a bad dance partner who just wouldn't let go. 

That voice-quiet at first-got louder. And louder. Until it wasn't just about dance anymore. It followed me through auditions, rehearsals, even into the supermarket. 

By the time I reached university, I was  burnt out, but you wouldn't have known it. I was performing. Always performing. For tutors, judges, audiences... myself.  Because in dance, being tired is a badge of honour. Being hungry is called "dedication." Pushing through pain? That's "commitment." 

But here's the truth no one says out loud: that isn't discipline, it's damage. 

And I felt it. I started to notice it amongst my peers, I started to notice the patterns, I started to notice the culture. I saw their pressure. Their anxiety. That same inner critic I once listened to-now echoing in them. 

So I started making changes: I hit the books (and Google). I learned about disordered eating, how common it is, and how easily it can sneak into your life dressed as "discipline" or "clean eating." The more I learned, the more I saw it in people around me. Dancers skipping meals, overtraining, tracking calories like it was the stock market-this was normal? Not on my watch. 

Knowledge became my rebellion. I learned what food actually does for a body (spoiler: it's not the enemy). I started working with a women's health-focused trainer who flipped everything I believed on its head. 

Food? Not the enemy. Rest? Non- negotiable. Strength? Way more interesting than skinniness! 

Even the way I tracked food changed. I didn't use it to cut-I used it to check in. To make sure I was fuelling enough.

Suddenly, the numbers weren't something to fear-  they were a reminder to care for myself. Instead of logging every crumb in fear, I started tracking with a new mindset: Am I eating enough to be strong and healthy? Not restricting to be skinny.

And you know what? Apps aren't evil. It's the intention behind them. A hammer can build a house or break a window-depends on how you use it.  It felt radical... but really, it was just being kind. 

Then came rest. Actual rest. Not the "lay in bed while mentally rehearsing routines" kind. The real kind. The kind that heals. That refuels creativity. That reminds you: you're a human before you're a dancer.  And when I stepped back into the studio with this new mindset? Everything changed. I moved differently. Not lighter, but freer. 

I also learned this wild thing: rest is a flex. No, seriously. We glorify the overworked dancer -the one doing 10 classes, gym before sunrise, rehearsal after dark, fuelled by iced coffee and a granola bar. That used to be me. Now? I treat recovery like a queen. Rest isn't laziness. It's strategy. 

The dance world? It still feels like survival  of the fittest. Ever seen 20 dancers on stage looking identical, moving like synchronised robots? Been there. I once wore the same lycra catsuit as a 6-year- old. I was 16. If you're wondering, yes, I looked like the final boss in a toddler video game. 

I didn't have the tools back then to say, "Hey, maybe it's okay that I'm bigger than a child." But I do now. And I want to pass those tools on. Because here's the thing: we don't need to fix dancers.

We need to free them-from the pressure, the silence, the toxic "normal" we've accepted for too long. 

So, here's what I've changed as a dance teacher: 

• No required uniforms. I tell my students: Wear what's comfortable and moveable. Not what's 'Instagrammable'. 

• The Random Compliment Rule: Every session, give someone a compliment not based on looks. "You have cool ideas." "Your energy is amazing." "You light up the room." Boom-confidence boost and a warmer environment. 

Even now, I still have bad body days. That's life. But I aim for body neutrality. I don't have to love how I look 24/7. I just need to respect what my body does for me. It has literally carried me through hell and back. It deserves fuel. It deserves rest. It deserves kindness. 

Now, I know how to check myself with love instead of shame. 

I move to feel strong. I rest without guilt. I fuel with purpose. And I show up not to be perfect - but to be real. 

If you're in the dance world and you're tired, hungry, anxious, or just not feeling like you anymore... I get it.  And I promise: there's a better way. One with more softness, more strength, and way more snacks! You don't have to earn your place by disappearing.  You already belong-just as you are. 

Here's the takeaway:  You're not a machine. You're a human. And a powerful one at that!  Let's teach the next generation of dancers that it's not about shrinking to fit a mold- it's about expanding into your full, unapologetic self. Knowledge is power. Empathy is cool. Rest is revolutionary. And food?  Food is fuel. Just like petrol in a car. You wouldn't put water in a car and expect it to run so why do we treat dancers' bodies any differently? 

Let's make the next generation of dancers strong, smart, supported... and free. 

Written by Milly Best Dance Artist & Choreographer