Waltz Time - Entry 5 - The Thread Before the Leap

Waltz Time: Entry 5

The Thread Before the Leap
“The leap is mine, but the thread—that came from her. From the first steps, the first dance, the first dream.”

That night, back in my tiny Lower East Side apartment, I peeled off my tights where they landed on the hardwood floor beneath the loft bed. The entire space was approximately 300 square feet—a shoebox by most standards—but it was mine. One bathroom, a pocket-sized kitchen with a crooked stovetop, and a single room that somehow managed to hold my books, my makeshift vanity, my records, my hopes. I could still hear the echo of my own breath from the walk back from ballet class, my body buzzing, but my mind somewhere else entirely.

I kept thinking about that walk to the subway—how far I had come. And what came before.

I grew up in New Jersey, the eldest daughter of Italian immigrants, in a house where roles were stitched tightly, like the seams of the gowns my mother made by hand. My mother—oh, my mother—was a force. She was swept up in the glamour of 1940s and ’50s Hollywood, obsessed with the stars and their stories, and in her mind, she had one scripted for me. She envisioned a daughter draped in elegance and tradition, graceful yet obedient, creative yet compliant.

But life was rarely as glossy as the movie magazines she collected. Her own upbringing had left deep grooves—traditions edged with discipline, sometimes sharp, sometimes silent. When I turned to her with my feelings, I wanted comfort and connection. What I often got instead was judgment, or worse, my vulnerability used against me. I learned quickly that safety didn't always come from home. And yet… she was brilliant. Talented. A seamstress who could recreate a colonial gown from silk satin and lace so finely stitched you could wear it inside out and not see a flaw. She made all our costumes for Halloween contests—won none of them locally, despite her genius. It wasn’t until she entered a national contest that her work was recognized. She came home with a ribbon and a fire in her eyes. I saw in her that day the same quiet rebellion I was beginning to feel.

My dad didn’t want her to work. He was a proud man, traditional, like so many immigrant fathers. But the world didn’t always align with tradition. Slowly, they both evolved. They grew in tandem, sometimes with friction, sometimes with grace. I watched and I learned—how to hold on, how to let go.

We were four children: two older brothers, a little sister, and me. I was the apple of my father’s eye, the first girl, but that didn’t protect me from the chaos of our little house. I remember being left alone in my playpen while my mother—overwhelmed with babies, housework, and side sewing jobs—stayed up nights just trying to make life work. Maybe that’s where my imagination bloomed. Left to my own devices, I made up worlds.

She enrolled me in ballet class when I was just four years old. It was the beginning of my living her dream—to be a dancer. To her, ballet was beauty, poise, and elegance. And I think she saw in me the chance to bring that dream to life.

I actually liked ballet class. I remember walking myself there after school from the time I was five, clutching my little bag with slippers and leotard, determined not to miss a step. However, I also recall feeling dizzy during the turning exercises, particularly when executing piqué turns across the floor. I cried one day, spinning in a circle and collapsing in frustration, thinking I’d never master them. The tears got no sympathy from my teacher or my mother. She didn’t believe in coddling. To her, crying was a sign of weakness—or worse, of disobedience.

Dance became a bridge between us, but also a battleground. A space where I could shine, but only on her terms. And yet it stayed with me. It became mine, eventually. My way out. My way in.

I remember I hated loud noises—July 4th was terrifying. And every morning at 6 a.m., the firehouse siren shrieked just down the block. I’d cry, and my mother wouldn’t come. She thought I wanted attention. She was probably right. But I also wanted soothing.

So, when I got home to my apartment that evening—still warm from the city streets and the afterglow of a day of dancing—I began to ponder how I got here, not just to this tiny lofted space with its crooked stove and creaky floorboards, but to this moment in my life. I had just walked to the subway with you, Marc, and something about that simple walk stirred everything. I started thinking about how far I had come—from that quiet little girl in a playpen in Jersey to a young woman daring to chase a life on her own terms. The rhythm of my childhood was never quite mine. But now, in this stillness, I was beginning to hear the music I wanted to dance to. And I found myself wondering about you—your story, your journey—and looking forward to our first date with something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

This entry is a little different—a step back in time before you, Marc, before us. That night, in the stillness of my apartment after class, I realized something: I needed to remember who I was becoming in those early years, so I could better understand what brought me to that audition, our chance meeting, and the walk to the subway platform. What led me to say yes to the first date, and what made me ready—finally—to be seen.

Thank you for continuing to walk with me.

💓 - Anna