Common wisdom says it’s silly to have goals when you start Irish dancing at 21. When you’re a proven non-athlete, it’s even sillier. At 20, I had always been out of shape, inflexible, and uncoordinated, but when I discovered Irish dance at my seven-year-old sister’s first class, the reel decided my future for me. Visiting my first feis in the summer of 2012 sealed the deal. I had no idea what it might take to become one of those girls thunderously floating across the plywood while I stood there getting sunburnt. I just knew that, more than I had ever needed anything, I needed to learn how to dance.
“I believed all goals were worthy, that no goal was too scary to entertain. But some weren’t for me”
Irish dance was the first time I ever committed to something I was bad at, but I assumed from the start that success was possible. I believed all goals were worthy, that no goal was too scary to entertain. But some weren’t for me; potential aside, I’d never commit the time to win World Championships. But I didn’t think to limit myself based on what was reasonable. Open Championship was objectively a ridiculous goal, but it mattered to me. I wasn’t ready to concede that being in my 20s made me less of a competitor. I didn’t know how far I could go, but I was going to go there.
The early days were so satisfying. I couldn’t learn fast enough. I supplemented beginner classes with YouTube videos, tearing the skin off my heels trying to learn St Patrick’s Day in new hard shoes. I brushed off strangers’ side-eyes while practising my jig in the park after I started taking competitive classes. I spent every subway ride reviewing steps on my fingers to my four Anton & Sully tracks. The honeymoon infatuation worked. I made my way to Prizewinner, and won the O17 Traditional Set competition at my first Oireachtas. I was unlimited. I’d be an Open Champ in no time. And from there, who knew? Maybe I shouldn’t have written off winning Worlds so quickly.
But reality caught up with me fast when I got to Prelim. For years, I placed sporadically, but very inconsistently. My goal of winning one started to feel unattainable and I pounced on proof that others didn’t believe in me either. If a competition was too big, or too young, I wrote myself off immediately to protect myself from embarrassment when I got last. I took the same energy into practice. My potential was unlimited where I decided it was – I never dropped out of a plank – but I made no progress elsewhere. I wasn’t built for stamina, for example. Survival was hard enough. To push further was unthinkable.
Frustrating as this plateau was, I figured it was a matter of time before things came together. But when I didn’t place at my first feis back since 2020, something in me snapped. I was 28 now, and I’d spent five years in Prelim with no end in sight. Approaching my first Nationals, I promised myself I’d never miss another one. I needed one more win to qualify. By the 2022 deadline, I would be in Open.
Something major had to shift, but I couldn’t imagine what. I was already practising every day, and I thought I was giving everything I had. Then a friend and personal coach asked if there was anything I was holding back. I immediately realised I was holding back everywhere. I assumed so much: that I couldn’t do the exercises, that only “real champions” deserved space near the mirror, or that I could only win under perfect conditions. No matter how important dance was to me, I believed I wasn’t an athlete. This not only made me feel like I deserved less than the high-performing dancers I trained with, but it kept me from doing what I needed to reach my goals. I hung out at the back of the class. I rarely asked my teachers for advice. I barely even engaged with my friends during class. I was putting myself in my place rather than daring to see what I might become.
“No matter how important dance was to me, I believed I wasn’t an athlete”
The only way to change my physical game was to change my mental game. I started setting mini-goals to push past impossible. I’d challenge myself to execute just the step I was on, every time. When I feared my legs might give out, I’d challenge myself to push hard enough to let them, knowing I could always stand back up. I challenged myself to believe nightly drills were worthwhile. Meanwhile, I only spoke of possibilities. I told my teammates all their goals were reasonable, and reminded them how strong they were in the middle of stamina. Together, we found that strength. It never got easy, but one round at a time, it got possible.
For the first time in years, I began to see change. I placed at every feis I entered and earned more sashes last fall than the rest of my dance career. But I still didn’t get my win. As I gave everything I had and didn’t get what I wanted, I began to wonder if I really was out of my depth. Winning felt like such a long shot. But I cared too much to stop. I kept chugging along on baseless faith. My lack of belief in myself was far less important than my commitment to try.
“I’d theoretically love to win the Worlds, but that’s someone else’s goal”
And then, this February, I found myself at the Chocolatetown Feis in Hershey, Pennsylvania. It was exactly the kind of competition I used to count myself out of: huge, young, terrifying. Everyone brought their A-game. I freaked out, unsure why I bothered showing up. The odds felt too steep. And maybe they were, I realised. So be it. If I didn’t place, it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to do the judges’ job for them. If I was out of my depth, let them tell me. I was going to show up as a winner. And if I wasn’t, my strength would be letting that feedback shape my plan rather than break it.
I won the first medal round. I didn’t place in the second. Rather than call up the overall placers, they counted us down from the crowd, leaving me to wonder with every passing number if I’d placed higher, or not at all. With every placement, my heart dropped. By the time they got to the top five, I started panicking. When my number was read in first, I didn’t stop crying for over an hour.
“My next dreams are small to some people, huge to others, just right for me”
There are so many goals we can set for ourselves as Irish dancers. I’d theoretically love to win Worlds, but that’s someone else’s goal. Winning the 17+ Preliminary Championship at the Chocolatetown Feis felt better than any other result could because that goal was mine – one that felt real enough to commit to through fear and doubt. We all have limits to what we will achieve. That’s fine. But when we dare to act like we’re contenders, we often find our limits are much higher than we thought. My next dreams are small to some people, huge to others, just right for me. If I never reach them, I’m comfortable getting wherever all-in takes me. It’s farther than I’ll go by putting myself in my place.
Gabrielle dances for the Doherty Petri School. You can follow her on Instagram.
