So You Think You Can Dance

When I competed on So You Think You Can Dance, I thought I was stepping into one of the biggest opportunities of my career. And in many ways, I was. But what I didn't expect was what it would reveal to me about the dance industry — and about myself.

Behind the scenes, the conditions were intense. Long days, constant pressure, and an environment that didn't always prioritize the well-being of the dancers. But more than anything, it forced me to confront a truth I hadn't fully admitted to myself yet: as dancers, we are often willing to push ourselves to extremes — just to be seen, just to be chosen, just to feel validated. I know this because I craved it, too.

I wanted that recognition more than anything. I was willing to go through exhausting, overwhelming environments — even ones that didn't support my body or my artistry — because I believed that if I could just "make it," it would finally prove that I was enough. And for a moment, it felt like it did. I made the Top 10. But what I learned very quickly is that validation, attention, and even success on a platform like that doesn't fill what you think it will.

Because the reality is, it's not always about who the "best" dancer is — it's about who fits the role, the storyline, or the moment. And when your worth is tied to that, it can become incredibly damaging.

There were things said to me during that experience — critiques that didn't even air — that made me question the very technique I had spent my entire life building. And for the first time, I found myself not loving dance… but feeling disconnected from it. After the show, I had to step away. I felt like I had just gone through the ringer — physically, mentally, and emotionally. And while I am grateful for the opportunity and everything it taught me, I also had to be honest with myself. Parts of that experience did more harm than good.

But it gave me something even more important: clarity. I realized I didn't want to keep creating from a place of needing approval. I didn't want to keep chasing validation that would never truly be enough. So I made a promise to myself: from that point forward, I would create for myself — for my artistry, for the love of dance — not for the approval of an audience, a judge, or a title. And that shift changed everything.

That experience introduced me to some of the most talented, passionate, and resilient dancers — people who were going through the same pressures, the same highs and lows, and who reminded me that I was never alone in it. It showed me that even in the most challenging environments, there is still connection, growth, and something meaningful to take with you. And when I look back on it all, that's what I choose to carry forward — not the pressure or the need for validation, but the lessons, the relationships, and the clarity it gave me about who I am and the kind of artist I want to be.