No matter what happened at the Worlds this year, you are going to be okay.
I know this because I’ve been there. Sure, you hear tonnes of inspirational stories about people who never gave up and kept working hard until they finally reached their dream of [insert goal here].
Yes, we love these stories, but they aren’t the reality for most. What about the dancers who give it their all, diligently show up to every class, take note of every correction and drill at home, do everything ‘right’, but still don’t reach their goal?
You see all those stories about dancers who kept going and going until they won that globe. Or the story of the dancer who fought their way back after months out due to injury; the reaction videos of dancers just finding out they won. But please remember, for every 10-second clip of a dancer finding out they are the world champion, there are approximately two thirds of dancers in that competition who never got to do their third round, and the countless others who didn’t even qualify for Worlds in the first place.
“I carried that weight of fear so strongly that it entirely held me down during my two rounds”
I went to Worlds four times. Now, in an ideal world, if all went to plan as I had hoped, I would have recalled at my second Worlds, medalled at my third, gotten on the podium at my fourth, and continued on dancing all through college and beyond until I finally reached my big dream of winning a major. The reality?
I didn’t recall in 2011 (u16).
I didn’t recall in 2012 (u17).
I didn’t recall in 2013 (u18).
I didn’t recall in 2014 (u19).
Then I burnt out from complete exhaustion and collapsed under the insane pressure I put on myself and could not continue going. I left competition in 2014, having never reached any of my ‘big goals’ I gave up. But giving up does not make you ‘lazy’ or a ‘loser’.
See, it is okay if your goals change over time. It is okay if other priorities take their place. Here are a few of my not-so-inspirational Worlds experiences.
2009 – I danced just ceili. I felt like I had no business being there the entire time. I felt awkward and out of place, like a fraud. I had no business being at Worlds. I was just a lowly prelim dancer.
2010 – I didn’t qualify. I told myself I would the following year. I was two out of qualifying at nationals. Though this was my first nationals, and I ‘should’ have been happy just to have recalled, I couldn’t help but beat myself up. I wasn’t like the girls who World qualified. I was not good enough. Now, I *could* say I used that as motivation to push myself to work harder than ever to qualify at Oireachtas, which in a sense is true.
“I convinced myself that I only place well because I am at my best against everyone else at their worst”
However, intermingled between those intense practices was a whole lot of beating myself up, comparisons, and obsessive perfectionism. I had one sole focus – get the World qualifier spot. I either World qualified, or I was a loser, no other option. I had it all planned out. I had to reach all my big goals before I went to college. I would qualify in 2011, recall in 2012, and medal by 2013. No other options. It had to happen.
It is great to have big dreams, but it becomes too much when these dreams become a necessity, and the thought of not reaching them is so horrific you don’t even want to think of it. Irish dance is the only thing you have, after all.
So, let’s go back to the 2013 worlds. It was my third worlds, so I had that pressure of, ‘What if I don’t recall a third time?’ That is humiliating, and I am a loser, I thought. I carried that weight of fear so strongly that it entirely held me down during my two rounds. After months of hard practise, I panicked and danced a lazy, low-energy jig. I essentially threw away months of work. I was so angry at myself, not because I let my nerves get the best of me, but because I was so convinced that if I was like the other dancers, like the good dancers, I would be a good enough dancer that I wouldn’t need to worry about panicking. I panicked because I sucked. If I didn’t suck, I wouldn’t panic.
“Perfectionism took over, and I began to collapse under my own pressure”
On to 2014, which is most definitely my low point in Irish dancing. Coming off of a ‘high’ of placing second at Oireachtas and third at my first two feis’ of the season among a talented group of ‘18 and overs’, it wasn’t long before the pressure to continue doing well got to me. This isn’t real, I convinced myself. It is because everyone else has yet to peak. They aren’t at their best. I only place well because I am at my best against everyone else at their worst.
Naturally, this dismissal of my accomplishments became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Perfectionism took over, and I began to collapse under my own pressure. Subconscious self-sabotage of some sort, I suppose. My last Worlds ever went something like this:
Literal panic attacks in class – the “I can’t breathe” kind. What should have just been a routine full hornpipe turned into me basically walking through the last 16 bars because I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and my legs felt like dead weight.
Silly mistakes I didn’t usually make. I began to fall out of spins I usually did with confidence, sometimes falling multiple times in class. I fell in the first two bars of my reel at my school’s feis.
A general sense of dread about worlds. As it crept closer, I couldn’t help but think, “what if I don’t recall again?” FOUR TIMES.
My dance teachers tried to help me boost my confidence by making me look in the mirror and say: “I am a great dancer”. I would do anything my dance teachers said. If they asked me to drill a part of my steps 1000 times, I’d do it. I’d push through anything, to the point that they often had to tell me to take a break or I’d end up injured. But looking at myself and lying to my face was something I could not do. I did not believe I was a great dancer.
“I saw a world champion practise and was immediately ashamed to share the same space as her in that room”
A few days before my competition, I went to the practice room to do a run-through of my steps. It was early morning, so it was unusually quiet. There was only one other person in there. That one person happened to be a multi-time world champion warming up to do her hard shoe round. I saw her practise and was immediately ashamed to share the same space as her in that room. I would need much more work to get anywhere near as good as she was. I didn’t want to dance anymore but forced myself to run through a reel. Already feeling nauseous and stiff before I started, I did my lead, landing that scissor jump I usually loved, badly, my instability no doubt caused by the extreme anxiety I placed on myself.
The next few days were pure anger at myself for letting this happen. My ankle was painful. It clicked every time I took a step. I would have taken some time off to let it heal in any other situation, but this was the Worlds. I was not going to miss dancing at worlds.
“When they skipped my number, it felt like my entire world had fallen apart”
I got through my rounds on competition day with lots of Advil, tape, and ice. I was thrilled with my rounds, feeling amazing after getting off stage. My dance teacher was pleased with my rounds, too, even telling me to be prepared to do my set. I was one of the first in the set rotation, so I had to have my shoes on in case I recalled. I was hopeful. When they skipped my number, it felt like my entire world had fallen apart. Utter soul-crushing devastation.
Remember, for every video of a newly crowned world champion crying with joy as they see their name go up on the board, many other dancers never even make it to the stage to do their set. This was my experience at my last Worlds.
I removed my hard shoes when they skipped my number, hoping no one would see me. I did what felt like a walk of shame back to my hotel room. The next several hours, I was in a daze, so I can’t say what happened exactly, but it consisted of the following:
Aimlessly walking around the venue, feeling like a directionless mess. My whole world just collapsed under me. I couldn’t even process it yet.
“I did what felt like a walk of shame back to my hotel room”
Walking past two dancers with globes and two much younger dancers with sashes, feeling like a total loser. Sure, there were plenty of other non-recallers out there. But when you are one of the non-recallers, you get such tunnel vision, hyper-fixating on the world champions, convincing yourself that you, and only you, are the only dancer to never recall at Worlds. All sense of rational thinking escapes you as emotions take over. You, and only you, are the world’s biggest failure.
Talking to my dance teacher, she told me I really did my best, but the competition was just so hard (true), and there was nothing I did wrong here. I was convinced this was not true. It was just said to make me, the biggest loser in the world, feel like less of a loser. Surely, I must have been doing everything wrong. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be in this position.
Crying in the shower alone as I removed my makeup and washed off the sock glue and blonde spray from my hair.
“It felt like someone died. It felt like all of my hopes and dreams had died at that moment”
Lying on the floor staring at the ceiling until approximately 3am, getting almost no sleep. I couldn’t even say what I was thinking. I was just in a fog. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t what I had planned. I had to rethink my whole life now. What next? Where would I go from here?
Only one other time in my life have I experienced this type of state. That was, well, the night after my dad suddenly died. Yes, that is how extreme my response to not recalling was. It felt like someone died. It felt like all of my hopes and dreams had died at that moment. Yes, this sounds absurdly dramatic as I write it out now, but dance was all I had. It was my one source of self-esteem. Outside of dance, I was nothing. I needed dance to complete me, to make me feel like I had any value as a human. When you measure your entire worth on dance, this is what happens when you don’t reach your goals.
Now, looking back nine years later, it all seems so ridiculous. But back then, I didn’t have the perspective I have now. I didn’t need someone to tell me I was a fantastic dancer, or even a good dancer, even an okay dancer. I needed to realise that, regardless of my dancing ability, I was more than just a dancer.
Yes, I burnt out and collapsed under my own internal pressure and the weight of feeling like I was a complete failure in life. I left competition in 2014 as I went off to college. Not a beautiful perfect ending in which I was satisfied, had reached my goals and had a set of new life goals to pursue next. It was more like I was too exhausted and anxious, lost all motivation and joy in dance because I thought I was the biggest failure in the world and had no clue what I was doing with my life as I went to college, having no idea what I wanted to major in.
I changed my major three times, graduating with no job lined up. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to have your whole life planned ahead of you.
“I needed to realise that, regardless of my dancing ability, I was more than just a dancer”
I love Irish dance. It brings me joy every day. I love the music, the rhythms, the jumps. I love being creative with my own insane choreography, learning new things, exploring how dance has changed over the years, and just doing what I want. I love talking about and sharing my dancing with other like-minded dancers around the world. Dance brings me joy because it is not something I need to complete me, but rather something I enjoy.
If I left Irish dance entirely, little in my day-to-day life would change, really. I work a ‘normal’ 9-5 job. I am a grad student. I have friendships outside of dance. I have interests outside of dance. I am the only Irish dancer in my family. I don’t need to dance. I do it because I want to.
So, what has nine years removed from competition taught me? No matter what happens at any competition, you will be okay. Even if it feels like the end of the world at the moment, you will be okay. Dance is an entirely voluntary activity. You always have the option to leave. You stay because you want to. And you don’t need to reach any arbitrary competition goal to dance. If you enjoy dancing and you want to dance, then dance!
Reaching competition goals is nice, but know that it can never define your worth as a human. Off the stage, we are all just humans who enjoy dancing. None of us are better or worse than any other.
Oona Harrigan is a 27-year-old retired competitive dancer (2006-2014), who likes dancing for fun, and maybe will eventually get a TCRG. She works as a regulatory specialist for phase one oncology clinical trials at NYU, and is also a masters student in clinical research management at Rutgers. She runs the Instagram account wmh_x_0 with dance memes, photo edits, and ridiculous choreography. She also has two cats.
