I didn’t even fall in some dramatic way, nothing worth retelling in the studio. Just pavement cracked like old skin outside the building, my brain off in shopping-list land, and then—wham. Down I went. Half on my side, half twisted, like a bad yoga pose nobody asked for.
A woman with shopping bags stopped, gave me that half-smile, half-mother look. “¿Estás bien, cariño?” she said, and I nodded too fast because embarrassment hurts more than ankles do. Limped inside like nothing happened.
And then the burn came, right up the side of my leg. Dancers know it. That alarm bell in the body that says: something’s wrong, and you’d better pray it isn’t serious because no one’s paying your bills while you’re stuck on a sofa.
The kids were waiting, bouncing, chewing gum, asking if we could do spins again. I sat on the floor instead, clapped counts, pretended it was “new choreography.” They thought it was fun. I thought: this is the beginning of the end if I can’t move properly by next week.
No insurance, no backup plan. Just me, a bag of frozen peas, and too much time to think. Spain has rhythms I love, but freelancing here? It’s a gamble.
I told myself at least I got off light. In Los Angeles, people have horror stories — traffic, accidents, whole lives turned upside down. A friend of mine once spent months fighting hospitals and lawyers after she got knocked down. Out there you practically trip over a personal injury law firm sign on every block. And you need them, otherwise you drown in bills. Compared to that, my swollen ankle and missed rent money feels like a slap on the wrist.
Still. Try telling that to the stage. The stage doesn’t wait. It doesn’t even notice when you’re missing. Classes went on, performances too. I sat home listening to the neighbour’s TV through the wall, ankle taped, room smelling faintly of sweat and disinfectant from the night before.
By day three I cracked. Sneakers on, tape tight, back to class. I moved like a scarecrow with loose hinges, but at least I was there. Nobody said anything. Or maybe they were just kind enough not to.
Walking home, hobbling really, I thought about how fragile it all is. A stupid crack in the pavement and suddenly you’re reminded that your body is a borrowed thing. The rhythm keeps going whether you join in or not.
I don’t have a neat ending for this. My ankle still hurts. Tomorrow I’ll show up again anyway. That’s it.
