I often joke that I’ve spent more time in a dance class than anywhere else in my life, but it’s also the truest thing I can say about myself. For over 25 years, dance has been my anchor, my mirror, and my most honest teacher. When you grow up learning an art form so intense, its lessons don’t just stay within the four walls of the studio, they spill over into who you are, how you show up in the world, and what you choose to stand for.
As part of a world that has changed leaps and bounds in the last 25 years, one of the greatest privileges of my journey has been learning under the same teacher for over two decades. When a single guru shapes your learning for that long, the relationship becomes far deeper than weekly classes. They don’t just teach you choreography, they shape how you think, what you value, and how you understand rigour, beauty, and purpose. Mine also taught me to pause and give equal attention to the all aspects of life whether it was academics, parents, marriage or the softer things like shopping and, as she puts it “being jolly”.
Of course, like all hard taskmasters, my teacher remained serious when it came to practice. From her, I learnt what real investment looks like, the kind that unfolds slowly across years. I also consider myself lucky because by the time I joined her, my teacher would only sit down and teach, so I learnt mostly through listening and observation. Just watching her express and speak were its own curriculum.
She also insisted we watch performances, sit through festivals, and immerse ourselves in the art beyond our tiny bubbles. Patience was not a virtue we discussed, it was something we lived. Progress happened in millimetres, not milestones, and I learnt to respect the long, slow burn of mastery. Over the years, I’ve also realised that in dance, mastery is a pursuit. Also, subjective.
A big part of my early years was spent competing in various dance competitions. I remember being excited and overwhelmed all at once with the mad rush of travel, rehearsals, costumes, make up, results, and the strange mix of nerves and adrenaline that only a stage can produce.
Competition isn’t always healthy, and its more true in the dance world than anywhere else, I’d say. But it is real. Unlike the polished illusion of social media, a competition stage teaches you to stand there with nothing backing you except your practice. It taught me to be present in real time. To accept that sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and both are fleeting. I learnt to handle applause without arrogance and rejection without collapse. Also, because my mother was with me through much of this, I also had the gift of critical feedback, the kind that loves you enough to be honest. And as mothers do, my wins were hers and my loss was also her, very personal, loss.
Many of my initial performances happened as part of the performing unit in my dance class. And one thing is for sure, group work is a different ball game altogether. One learns to manage energy, one’s own and everyone else’s. One also learns when to take the limelight and when to step back because the character doesn’t need to dominate the space. One learns that collaboration isn’t passive and that it requires awareness, generosity, and discipline. While it was hard to always get along, my group performance experience also brought along a extremely fun group of girlfriends who are still some of my most closest. Touring for performances also taught me how to treat the work seriously while still making space for laughter, chaos, and friendships. Rehearsals weren’t just about choreography they became quiet lessons in leadership, organisation, and resilience. And when I got to leading rehearsals, I began to understand what it meant to hold a room together.
When I was about 17, I also had the unique experience of teaching as a senior student in my dance class. Very early on, I realised that each learner arrives with a different rhythm, body, fear, and spark. And that teaching isn’t a copy-paste mechanism. It was also the time I learnt that I enjoy teaching dance and derive a lot of energy from it. It taught me to demand excellence yet be compassionate and respond to the learner as they come. At 17, that was a profound lesson. It shaped the way I communicate in every part of my life. It made me slower to judge and quicker to listen.
If there’s one thread running through all 25 years, it is practice. Not glamorous, not inspirational, just steady, persistent practice. As dancers, we are taught to push and push, not until we break. Because breaking isn’t an option, you see. But over time, I learnt that showing up is only half the story. Intentional practice is where the real transformation lies. In both, the body and the mind.
One of the quiet miracles of dance is the way the body remembers. Dancers will often talk about choreographies they learnt years or even decades ago, and yet the moment the music begins, the body steps in like it was yesterday. Muscle memory is not poetic exaggeration, it’s real, and it is powerful. This also means that you begin to develop a deep sense of trust in the body. You learn to listen. To notice fatigue. To recognise the difference between discomfort and danger. Dance doesn’t teach you kindness toward your physical self. But over the years, your body and mind learn a common language of kindness. I’d be lying if I said I always honoured that kindness. I’ve pushed through injuries, ignored pain, and lived by the mantra of “the show must go on” more times than I should have. But over the years, I’ve learnt that the body keeps score in memory, in movement, and even in injury. So I’ve learnt that learning to listen is not optional. It’s survival.
In the 25 short years of my formal training and performing, I think it is safe to say that the journey hasn’t always been fun or pretty or easy. Art is a deeply personal and therefore political journey for me. And that’s not the most comfortable journey to partake in. But one thing I know for sure: I’m not just learning to dance, I am learning how to live with grace, rigour, discipline and compassion, all at once.
Here’s to the next 25!
Tejaswini Halthore 