Waking Energy 7 Timeless Practices Designed to Reboot Your Body and Unleash Your Potential

caffeine), I was wired—like a rocket with enough firepower to blast the roof off the theater. I
watched from the wings as the boys performed allegros, the big jumps, launching their bodies into the
air, weightless. I felt the familiar pull to join them, to playfully compete with them as I so often did. I
was blessed with something called exceptional ballon, meaning I could catch air very easily and gain
nearly as much height as my male counterparts. I loved to soar through the air from the time I was a
little girl, and I was always trying to fly higher.
Adorned in my usual attire—a jewel-toned leotard, black leg warmers over sheer pink tights, a
pair of sweatpants fashioned into a shawl, and a well-worn pair of pointe shoes—with a light sweat
glistening on my forehead, I took the stage for warm-up. I ran over to stage right to join two of my
strongest male counterparts right after they started the short phrase that was preparation for a grand
sissone, a jump where the legs went ecarte, splitting apart completely in midair, forming a 180-
degree angle parallel with the floor.
Effortlessly, I launched my body into space, rising to a height equal to that of one of my friends
and higher than that of the other. After this first flight, vibrating with an explosive energy that I could
barely contain (not to mention the caffeine coursing through my veins), I prepared to repeat the jump
stage left with the other two.
Charged with even greater intensity, I knew in advance that I was going to jump higher than both
of them. With an “I’ll show you” kind of attitude, I powered into the preparatory plie that propelled
my body skyward. I used more sheer force than ever before. I went soaring into space, instantly
transported with my legs split apart in midair and my ego riding on the rise of my body, gleefully
aware of the other two bodies now slightly beneath mine. I ascended ever upward in a state of
heavenly, floating bliss . . .
And then, two nanoseconds later, just as my top leg reached its maximum extension, a red-hot
searing pain ricocheted through my left hip. I fell as if in slow motion toward the stage, crashing into
a heap, writhing in agony. I lay in a crumpled pile, like a smoking aircraft fuselage, with flames
lapping at my body. I moaned and rocked back and forth, holding my left leg, hot tears running down
my cheeks, choking in my attempts to articulate what I was feeling to the boys who were kneeling
down, huddled around me.
The team of osteopaths who examined me said that I had torn the tensor fasciae latae, a vital
stabilizing muscle in the upper leg connected to the front of the hip bone, which assists primarily in
forward locomotion. Sidelined and devastated, I watched as a girl who competed with me took the
part I had worked so hard to secure. The doctors said it would be months before I would recover.
Confronted by my fragility, I felt a new kind of fear—the fear of losing something that I loved and
made my life worth living. After my injury, my body no longer responded as it always had. Now even
the most basic movements were painful, if not impossible. I had been catapulted from a false safety, a
kind of naive and egotistical omnipotence in which I took my body for granted, into an abyss where I
feared my body would be taken away from me, where I might never recover or dance again. I could
not let that happen. It was a fate worse than death.
I was sufficiently incentivized to recover quickly and found my way to the Pilates Centre at the
Pineapple Dance Studios on Langley Street in Covent Garden for rehabilitation. Involuntarily
initiated suddenly into a harsh new reality, I had to learn patience, courage, determination, and hope.
Surrounded by the warmth and support of the English team of osteopaths, I started to understand
through each modicum of progress I made in my rehabilitation that positive encouragement went