FIGS COMMUNICATIONS

Glancing up from the dance bar, I spotted a stage director struggling to shout over the jingling feathered hats that surrounded him.
"Five minutes 'til show time! That's FIVE minutes!"
Pushing through the mob, he held his clipboard above his head as if he were wading across a river. As he emerged from the dancers, he attempted to spit a red feather from his lips. I kept an eye on him as he tried to answer his walkie-talkie and dodge the unicycles simultaneously. I let out a hiccup of a laugh as the man hopped away from the incoming traffic. This was the first thing to distract me from my nerves that started about a week ago, and I was grateful that a part of me found some entertainment in this poor man. I didn't realize I had been staring at him until he was right in front of me.
"Miss?"
I cleared my throat and blinked a few times, my eyes trying to adjust to the sudden change in proximity. Taking my ear buds out I said, "Yes, I'm performing" in my shy voice.
"I certainly hope you are!" he chuckled sarcastically, then pivoted and headed to the next dressing room to make the same announcement.
As I resumed my stretches, The Hush Sound faded back into both ears. No one around me was recognizable as being human. A "thing" next to me (I'm not sure what gender they were) cursed as they bent down to restring the grouping of clear beads that fell from their shoulder straps. Another "thing" (looking more like a girl) started making sharp bird calls into the mirror. I tried to focus by distracting myself from feeling nervous.
It was a kind of game I played—kind of like I Spy—to calm myself down. I looked around the room. This is the only dance room I've seen that has mirrors covering all the walls and the ceiling, I thought. I looked up at my reflection on the ceiling as I pulled my foot further above my head. It was peculiar how I didn't see myself, but instead a sequin-covered butterfly with elaborate metallic makeup.
The stage director came back and rounded us up. Three of the Russian gymnasts argued over which ribbon belonged to whom as I left the warm-up room and found my place in the line at the tunnel. By now I was shaking without The Hush Sound to calm me. The only calming thing was that no one would recognize me; I could be whoever I wanted to be. If I messed up, no one would judge me afterwards.
The noise was deafening, and I wasn't even out of the tunnel yet. Then the "thing" in front of me started to move forward and into the arena. This was it. I put on the biggest smile I could, went on my tiptoes, and squinted at the blinding camera flashes. I remembered how we had practiced nine hours a day and told myself this was what all that hard work had been for. I began to wonder if it was all worth it- pulling my hamstring, falling from twenty feet above the arena and spraining my wrist, eating little lo no carbohydrates-all for performances where no one would recognize my efforts afterward. I corrected my smile and did a couple of one-handed flips beside an elephant. Was I doing this for myself, or had I become a crowd pleaser? Had I lost my individuality along the way to following my dream?
I tried to convince myself I was wrong, and I was finally doing what I have always dreamed of. I knew this to be true, but now that I was "living the dream," I was feeling like there needed to be something more.
Circling around and going backstage after the opening ceremony, I look a look at the program I had rolled as I anxiously waited for my cue. There is was: the second figure jumped from the ledge and caught hold of the upside-down person's hands as they swung from the trapeze. Out of the crowd's sight, I started my two-story ascent onto the platform. I loved the adrenaline rush I got from my routine, and the "ooo"-ing and "aww"-ing from the crowd just fed my excitement. The drums rumbled and then my serene music started.
I grabbed the two pieces of deep red silk and swung from the balcony to the middle of the arena. As the music notes climbed the scale, I climbed the silk in a sitting position, my legs stretching in front of me then departing into the splits. The fog machine high above me started, and deep blue light shone through it. I was the dazzling jewel in the night sky; every sequin that covered me caught the light every time I moved, casting sparkles on the crowd. I felt so peaceful—all my anxiety vanished as I curled up in the silk like a caterpillar in a cocoon-and at the same time, invincible and untouchable, ready for any battle. I twisted the silk around my ankle and waist, arching my back and grabbing the other piece from behind my head.
Now comes the most challenging part. Just when the audience thought I was as high in the air as I dare go, I climbed higher still. I felt clever that I fooled them all as I reached 27 feet into the air. How ironic: now I was the one making them nervous! I was in complete control. This is the part of the program where I like to look out into the crowd and spot the kid with their mouth open, the woman holder her breath, and the guy who walks up and down the stairs selling cotton candy freeze in his tracks, hypnotized by my fluid movements. I loved how I was the only thing in motion; not even the overpriced glowing, twirling circus toys were moving (the parents weren't getting their monies worth, if you ask me). I twisted abruptly, conveying the sense that I was spinning out of control and was about to fall, but it was only a marvelous optical illusion. The type of trick that should come with the disclaimer, "DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME." I felt so daredevil-ish, which was interesting considering I am the epitome of a socially awkward person and don't like to draw attention to myself. But when I'm in the arena, I'm the center of attention, and when I'm in the moment, I'm perfectly fine with that.
The turning point in the music cued the conclusion of my act. I slowly slid down the silk, face first. I bowed in all directions then scampered offstage. Grabbing my Vitamin Water and my giant canvas bag, I went into the performers' lobby as the closing act was just ending. There were a bunch of dancers and clowns standing in cliques according to their acts. Most of them had taken their costumes and makeup off, making it nearly impossible to tell which character they played. Funny how that works: it's like they were only identifiable by who they weren't.
I started making my way out of the backstage area and into the exclusive area where friends and family of the performers met after the show to give flowers, stuffed animals and kisses. I just want to get home. I was almost at the elevator when I heard someone call out "Wait!" Trying to make their way through the crowd was a flock of people all wearing identical pink and purple I-shirts, led by a young girl, about nine­ years-old.
"Yes?" I directed my question to one of the adults, but the girl spoke first. "You're the butterfly! I'd know you anywhere!"
I was then that I took time to read their shirts. An uncomfortable lump formed in my chest as I read the silk-screened print: "Make-A-Wish: Team Kendra."
"We're sorry to bother you, but she's a huge fan of yours and we were hoping we could get a few pictures with you." Her mother spoke, looking at her daughter but talking to me.
"She has all the DVDs of your shows at the hospital and watched them before she goes to sleep because your act is very soothing. You really make her feel confident and strong; the story you performance tells of a caterpillar breaking free and becoming a butterfly has motivated her to keep fighting, and we all have you to thank for that."
Tears started to form in her eyes, and she moved forward and hugged me. I realized I hadn't hugged anyone in a very long time. I wasn't exactly the hugging type, but I hugged her back and really meant it.
The group presented me with a gift basket filled with glitter nail polish, glow sticks, Pop Tarts, a My Little Pony coloring book and a painting on a small canvas.

"I painted a picture of me sitting on the moon watching you changing into a butterfly" Kendra said, wearing the biggest grin, even without her two front teeth.
After the pictures and the autographs, I found myself staring at the closing elevator doors. Knowing that I had changed that little girl's life was enough to change my perspective on how I was living mine. It became clear to me: I am more than just a performer. I am a source of strength for all those caterpillars wanting more in life.