Youth America Grand Prix

At 12 years old, I won the gold medal at YAGP for my pas de deux Coppélia with Antonio Casalinho — one of the best dancers in the world for his age. From the outside, it looked like a dream. A defining moment. Proof that everything was working. But what the outside world didn't see was everything it took to get there.

In order to train with him, I traveled to Portugal, a country where I didn't speak the primary language, all while being away from home at such a young age. The days were long, the expectations were high, and I was suddenly immersed in a completely different style of ballet. I had grown up training Vaganova, and now I was learning Cuban technique. Everything felt unfamiliar. Everything felt hard. There were moments I felt completely alone in the process. I didn't feel guided by my home studio, and I was navigating something that felt far bigger than me without the support I needed. But I was so grateful for the opportunity, and I wanted to be good enough. So I worked.

After long rehearsal days, I would sit in front of the mirror for hours, repeating the same movements, trying to refine my arms because I believed they were my weakest point. I felt like I had to rebuild my artistry from the ground up. Partnering felt like starting over entirely — learning a new language with my body, trying to mold myself into a completely different expectation.

Eventually, we made it to the New York Finals. I remember coming off stage feeling proud — like I had truly done my best. My mom was crying. It felt like a moment I would never forget. And then my instructor leaned in and whispered to me, "You looked like a cartoon animal." In an instant, everything shattered.

At 12 years old, I didn't have the tools to process that kind of comment. I didn't understand how something could feel so right and be torn down so quickly. It planted a seed that so many dancers carry — this idea that no matter how hard you work, it still might not be enough. Later that week, I won the gold medal.

I remember the rush of it. The validation. The momentary feeling of relief, like I could finally take a deep breath and say, "I did it." But underneath that feeling, there was something else I couldn't ignore: it still didn't feel like enough. That experience stayed with me, not because of the medal, but because of what the experience revealed. That success doesn't automatically create confidence. That external validation doesn't heal internal doubt. You can achieve something incredible and still question your worth. And that is exactly why The Pointe of You exists.

Dancers spend years sharpening their technique, but few fail to recognize that at the same time, they are navigating pressure, criticism, comparison, and identity at such a young age — often without the tools or support to process it in a healthy way. I know what it feels like to be in that space. To chase perfection, to crave approval, and to feel like your value is tied to your performance. The Pointe of You was created to change that narrative.

To give dancers the mentorship I wish I had in those moments. To help them build not only stronger technique, but stronger confidence, self-awareness, and mental resilience. To remind them that their worth is not defined by a single comment, a single performance, or even a single win. Because the truth is — the goal isn't just to succeed. It's to feel whole while you're doing it.