Dancing Through Recovery by Hopewell Program Coordinator: Christine McPhail

For as long as I can remember, I have loved dancing. I started taking ballet classes when I was 3 and a half years old after seeing a recording of a ballet production on TV. I then promptly asked my mother to enroll me in dance.  I didn’t know anyone in my life who danced formally but I had a mind of my own (still do!) and I was drawn to dance like a magnet to metal.

I still remember my first performance, dressed as a kitten with cat ears and a tutu, pointing one foot then the other and lots of unstable (but endearing) pliés. For a child that was relatively shy off stage, I LOVED to perform. It was exhilarating and made me feel more alive than anything else. The confidence that I struggled to find in everyday life seemed more accessible in the studio and especially on stage. Dancing made me feel free and beautiful and it still does.

As is the norm in the dance world, whether recreationally or professionally, I was expected to be dedicated to my training and I was. I really couldn't get enough.  I fell head over heels (but not really) for dance and for performing. My studio’s primary focus was ballet but as the years went on and I was asked to join the new competitive team, I expanded my repertoire to jazz, lyrical, musical theatre, tap and even hip hop.  My dance studio became a second home, where I spent countless hours taking class, rehearsing for performances, and sometimes just practicing on my own after school and before class. I made close friendships with the other dancers and had enormous respect for my dance instructors. Dance was a constant in my life as I grew up and it served as an outlet for tough emotions, as a way to express myself and my experiences creatively, and ultimately a place to develop self-confidence and self-esteem. Dance also taught me the importance of hard work, time management, discipline and perseverance in the pursuit of your goals.

With all of its merits, dance unfortunately also played a role in the development of my restrictive eating disorder at the age of 10. In the eating disorder community, we know that adolescents that participate in sports or activities that emphasize body shape (gymnastics, dance, figure skating, boxing etc) are at higher risk for developing eating disorders. With perfectionist tendencies, a somewhat anxious disposition in place, and then a developing body on top of all of that, I am not surprised that I was one of the unlucky ones to develop one of these terrible mental illnesses. I was so young that I didn’t really know what I was doing but what I did know was that culturally, dieting was a solution for when your body gets bigger than you want it to be. So that’s what I set out to do and, as it does for many, this triggered an unhealthy obsession with weight and food and I began a slow but ever increasing level of restriction. A mixture of nature and nurture, my eating disorder had been triggered and it was in complete control.  My self worth and even my perceived ability as a dancer hinged on my weight and shape more than my actual training or artistry. The mirrors of my dance studio were torture. The problem for me was that my eating disorder promised me skill when it took away my strength and agility. It promised me grace and creativity but left me tired and monotone. It  promised me that I would feel better when I reached  X weight but I only felt worse. Ultimately, my eating disorder was slowly taking away my ability to do the thing I loved most in life, to dance.  I became a different person.  I was irritable and withdrawn and I became manipulative and lied continuously to avoid what I feared most...nourishment.  It wasn’t long before my parents and my dance instructors were very concerned. Fortunately, I was referred to CHEO as an outpatient. I was scared. The eating disorder had consumed me but I was also eager to please my medical team and I responded well to treatment over the next year. 

Although it’s improving, there is still a thin ideal when it comes to dancers’ bodies and it is very easy for young dancers to connect the shape of their body with their skill and potential.  I was fortunate that my instructors did not comment on the shapes of our bodies but instead focussed on our technique and allignment but  the thin ideal was implicit at competitions, amongst ourselves and in the professional community. The world around us idolized smaller bodies in general too and so we internalized the thin ideal.  Some of my peers developed disordered eating/exercise behaviours as well and so in some ways these behaviours seemed common and maybe even normal for a dancer. Now, I think it is so important for dance instructors to educate themselves to spot the warning signs, learn how they may cause harm for those at risk and also how they can help someone who is struggling.  This awareness that my instructors had made a real difference.  Ultimately, a dance instructor is THE role model for a young dancer. That’s how the art of dance is shared from generation to generation and it’s also how a mentoring relationship is formed that has the potential to help foster positive body image and healthier attitudes towards food and weight/shape in young dancers.

Since the development of my eating disorder, my recovery has been a journey and I have had relapses and new behaviours develop but I eventually reached a point where I really felt recovered.  I only reached this point by exploring my self worth outside of my eating disorder and developing healthier coping mechanisms and always seeking support.  Although dance played a role in the development of my eating disorder, it has also played an active role in my recovery.  The perseverance I learned in dance class translated to perseverance in real life to go after what I wanted and deserved.  Dance also helped me understand that despite the pain and discomfort that came with recovery, that it was worthwhile to keep pursuing it. Dance is also my constant reminder that my body is my instrument and that it deserves nourishment and care.

As an adult, when I go to the studio, it’s the little girl in the tutu that comes alive in me. The girl who loves to dance and ultimately loves herself.  My dance class is a familiar sanctuary, a place where I can really release emotion and be fully present. I am challenged physically and mentally but I am now more grateful than ever for what my body can still do. If a reflection in the mirror ever causes me any grief, it is the love for dance and the true freedom it brings that I hold on to. Something my eating disorder promised but never delivered.

- Christine McPhail