Piping-hot cups of overpriced Starbucks in tow, I breathlessly enter the studio and speed walk to my happy place: the ballet room. Pushing open the door, the stress of my day begins to dissipate with the chorus of “Miss Grace!” that follows. Returning Mz. Lisa’s credit card, I begin to assess what class today will entail. Annabelle, smiling serenely, sits uncommonly quietly for a seven-year-old; hyperactive John Perry emulates Usain Bolt running laps around the sleek wooden floor. Elizabeth channels her inner gymnast, vaulting into my arms to award me with an affectionate embrace; Crystal stops eating Cheerios mid-crunch, abandoning her coveted snack to greet me with a gap-toothed smile. The studio’s AC is blasting, but my Americano warms my hands and the studio’s atmosphere warms my heart. Downing the caffeine infusion, I record the attendance as Mz. Lisa explains the day’s agenda: a short barre, then focus on adagio. Assuming my central place at the barre, I try to pry little Lucia’s hand from mine in a futile attempt to compel her to watch Mz. Lisa demonstrating the combination. It appears to be a typical young children’s ballet class taught by a slightly frazzled ballet mistress and her teenage assistant, but there’s more going on in the special space than what meets the eye.

Who is an assistant? Someone patient. Someone who removes four-year-old Raylee’s finger from her nose and tirelessly explains to her that she can’t “scratch her boogies” when she’s on stage at gala. Someone willing to make sacrifices, whether it be waking up early on a Saturday to come to the studio and hot-glue rhinestones on headbands or walking to get coffee in freezing cold weather. Assisting is hard. But it’s a sacrifice I’ll continue to make time and time again -- the experience is well worth it.

Shy at first, the children warmed up after the first few classes, unveiling affectionate personalities. The hugs they bestow upon me are reflective of their individual natures: Rachel, timid and hesitant, never wants to let go; Tara’s breath-choking squeezes fit her extroverted temperament. Despite the students’ contrasting personalities, they’re all extraordinarily thoughtful. Taking it upon themselves to learn my favorite candy, they present me with a never ending barrage of Twizzlers. Though there are no longer any young children in our household, my family’s refrigerator has become overcrowded with the artwork of which Rachel, Marley, and others have deemed me a worthy recipient. The nature of the relationships I’ve built with the children are astoundly strong, considering we spend a mere forty-five minutes together each week.

Someone to look up to. Someone to aspire to be. That’s what my students see when they look at me. They don’t see a sixteen-year-old girl who hasn’t the slightest idea of where her life is going. Instead, they hold me in the same esteem that Yankees fanatics hold Derek Jeter. “Do you still live with your mom, Miss Grace?” “Have you gotten married yet, Miss Grace?” Through the unworldly perspectives of the pint-sized dancers, sixteen years old is completely grown up. Their eyes widen in awe to my affirmation that I drove to the studio that day. To their young minds, the mundane task seems as exhilarating as a roller coaster ride. Though I’m not as fully grown as my students think me to be, I’m still honored to be their mentor.

Over a mere year, I’ve had the privilege of helping transform the kids from bumbling caterpillars to beautiful dancing butterflies. Nothing compares to seeing the pure delight of children when they finally execute a changement correctly or nail a series of chainés for the first time. The first time Isabella, a shy yet determined nine-year-old, correctly performed a chassé was unforgettable. Despite her admirable work ethic, the seemingly simple step had nearly frustrated her into defeat, but she was able to execute it correctly just as we were about to quit. For the remainder of the class, her radiant smile was too big for her face. Ballet teaches young students like Isabella a lesson that will serve them well throughout their lives: that accomplishment is reflective of their work ethic. Dancing also taught a valuable lesson to Katrina, a sweet six-year-old whose contumelious tendencies hid her good heart. The dilemma? As usual, Katrina wasn’t listening. Having unsuccessfully tried punitive and bribery tactics, Mz. Lisa and I were at a loss. After careful consideration, we deemed it prudent to instead focus on other students’ good behavior, effectively cutting off Katrina’s supply of what she craved: attention. Over the next few weeks, she morphed into a model student: arriving to class with a positive attitude, listening attentively, and diligently applying corrections. Katrina’s deduction that she could attain attention in another way improved ballet class for us all.  The privilege to shape the behaviors of impressionable students like her prompts my return back to the studio each week.

But as much as I’ve helped teach the kids, their reciprocation is far more valuable. Assisting has led me to recognize the importance of being carefree. In a way, the children I assist have far have better priorities than most adults. They know what they like and allow themselves to do it without judging themselves for it. Their favorite sparkly necklace is tacky? They wear it anyway, and aren’t fazed in the slightest about what others will think. Someone brought in cookies to share before class? Indulging in copious amounts of sugary treats, they give no thought to what their peers think about their lycra-clad stomachs. Their insouciance and naiveté lends itself to smiles and a cheery disposition reflective of a true contentedness with life.

Do something carefree today. It can be anything: run around like a maniac, eat five cookies without caring how you’ll look in your leotard, embrace your favorite tacky jewelry. Just please don’t pick your nose.