Dancing on the Edge of Dreams: What I Gained from a Ballet Audition

We arrived in droves—bright-eyed and ballet-bound—each of us clutching a dream and a number. The audition for Clara in The Nutcracker with Ballet West, a professional dance company, wasn’t just a chance. It was the chance.

For young dancers, few opportunities shine as brightly as performing with a professional ballet company. And among all the roles, Clara is the dream. It’s one of the rare lead roles available to children in professional productions, which makes the opportunity all the more magical—and meaningful.

Clara is the role nearly every young ballet dancer dreams of. She’s the heart of the story—the one who dances with wonder and wakes to magic. To be Clara is to be chosen—not just for your technique, but for your presence, your storytelling, your ability to make an entire theater believe in dreams again.

The ballet studio buzzed with nervous chatter, the smell of rosin and hairspray filling the air. We all wore the ballerina uniform of aspiration: pink tights, black leotards, pink ballet shoes. Hair slicked back. Standing tall. Hearts forward. A number pinned precisely to our chest.

At the front of the room sat the judges, a solemn row behind a long table. They never smiled, never gave away a flicker of thought. They began by teaching us a short routine—a blend of grace and precision, lightness and intention. We mimicked, repeated, refined.

Then the cuts began.

We danced a row at a time, trying to float like Clara through sugarplum air. After each round, numbers were called out. The girls with those numbers would quietly exit the room and disappear.

I danced. Then danced again. Again. Again. Again.

The crowd thinned.

Rows turned to smaller lines.

Finally, it was down to six of us.

They had us dance once more. Then again.

Still no numbers. They couldn’t decide. They talked among themselves and then had the six of us dance gain. Sweat gathered beneath my hairline. My calves trembled. My soul reached beyond the mirrors, as if I could will them to see me.

Then they called out a number.

It didn’t register. My feet didn’t move. My heart didn’t stutter. It was just a number in the air—someone else’s, surely.

They called it again.

Still, no one moved. I looked around. The other five girls stood still. I looked down at the number pinned to my chest.

It was my number.

I had been cut.

It took a moment to sink in.

I nodded, almost politely, and walked out. My mom met me with a proud smile. I told her I wanted to stay a few minutes, just to see who would go next.

The next cut seemed to take forever. I thought they were once again having a hard time deciding who to cut next.

But then, the door opened and the five remaining girls rushed out, flushed with joy and gripping their practice schedules. And that’s when I realized:

• I had been the very last girl cut.

I burst into tears. Not out of shame, but from the ache of being so achingly close.

It was one of the toughest thing I had done in my life up to that point. Not just the hours of dancing or the mental focus—but the vulnerability. The courage to show up for something I wanted so deeply, knowing there was no guarantee.

At twelve—or maybe thirteen—it felt like the end of everything. But even then, I knew it meant something that they couldn’t decide. That it came down to the wire. That for a few shining moments, I was still on the floor.

Now, when I look back, I don’t remember the judges’ faces or the sting quite so sharply. What I carry is the echo of my own feet across the studio floor. The fire in my chest as I danced and danced and danced.

And this: sometimes the most sacred growth happens not when you win the part, but when you realize you were a contender.

It’s Okay to Grieve the Almost

When your heart is in something, missing it by an inch can hurt even more than missing it by a mile. That’s a pain that’s easy to overlook, but it’s real. I felt it all—the sharpness of the “almost,” the ache of being so close, and the heavy weight of what wasn’t meant to be.

But the truth is: I wasn’t disappointed that I showed up. I wasn’t disappointed that I took that step in the direction of my dreams, no matter how close I came or how far I still had to go. The decision to audition, to take that risk, was an act of courage in itself—and that courage, even in the face of loss, was worth something.

Disappointment doesn’t cancel out courage. It just proves your dream meant something. I grieved the loss of Clara, but I also grieved the loss of the certainty I thought I had. The clear-cut path I thought I was walking was no longer there. But from that grief, something else grew—a deeper resilience. A quieter courage that had nothing to prove, but simply was.

For a long time, I saw their decision as rejection. I told myself that not being picked must mean I wasn’t enough. Not graceful enough, not polished enough, not Clara enough. And as the years passed, I began to understand something else. Not getting chosen doesn’t mean you weren’t good enough.

At first, I thought not being chosen meant I was somehow lacking. But with time, I realized that “almost” carries its own quiet strength. It’s not about whether you’re chosen or not—it’s about how far you’re willing to go in pursuit of your dreams and the resilience you build with every step you take. The growth far outweighs any sense of lack.

That audition remains one of the most formative experiences of my young life. Not because I made it, but because I almost did.

And sometimes, “almost” leaves behind something even more valuable than applause—resilience, quiet pride, and the unshakable knowledge that you were in the running for something beautiful. And yet, it still hurts.

We all have our own “almost” stories—those moments when we stood on the edge of a dream, reaching, hoping, only to fall just short. But those moments still shape us. They teach us. They reveal our strength.

Now, I’d love to hear from you.

Take a moment to reflect, and if you feel comfortable, share your thoughts in the comments:

• When was the last time you came close to something you wanted, only to fall short? How did it shape you?
• How do you define success—by the outcome, or by the courage to try?
• What “almost” moment in your life taught you something valuable?
• What’s one dream you still carry in your heart, even if it didn’t work out the first time?
• How might your story shift if you saw your near-miss as a sign of strength rather than failure?

Your story matters. Let’s encourage one another in the comments—because sometimes, knowing we’re not alone in the “almost” is exactly what we need to keep going.

Photo by Mia Bruning on Unsplash