I don’t remember being that girl. The one in the picture, up onstage, the tropical breeze blowing through her hair. The flower ula around her neck.

I remember the dancing. I remember how beautiful I felt in that costume, and other costumes, as I grew older and more skilled. When I look at this picture, I can faintly hear the cries of, “Ata mai, ata mai!” and the Polynesian music beating through me. But being that girl, being her is too hard. I don’t want to remember and so I don’t.

When anyone asks, I tell them I love my ballet. It’s true to a degree, I guess. Anyone walking in, seeing me in my black leotard at the barre, wouldn’t even think twice about the fact that I’m a dedicated dancer. And they’d be right. Plies, jetes, I practice them all for hours, until my body aches.

The stage lights are on me, me and my tutu and pointe shoes, and all I want to do is cry. This isn’t who I want to be. I want to be an island girl.

But tears would just ruin the stage makeup, so I dance on, and smile.