If my 20-year-old self knew who I’d become at 33, she’d be pissed. New to both adulthood and physical activity, I came to Irish dance with so much to prove, counting on the sport to teach me I could do anything I put my mind to. In many ways, it did. It’s hard to believe I’ve now danced on international stages, trained alongside world champions, and reached the highest level of competition. Then, over a decade after starting, I gave up on my biggest dream. Dance taught me I could do anything, but ultimately it taught me something far more important: just because you can do anything, doesn’t mean you must.
From the day I started competing, I said I’d never quit before I World-qualified. There was something addictive about how Irish dance rewarded hard work. With each new skill or level-up, I felt invincible. While I was sure I’d never want to quit at all, World-qualification felt like the least I could do with the opportunity I had. Where I’d always felt thwarted in other dance forms by my lack of talent and “dancer’s body”, here, I saw firsthand the doors passion could open. Sure, I had limits, but so did everyone. I knew qualifying would be hard, but I also knew the formula for success was mine to find.
This reality was so empowering, but it was a lot of pressure. If my goals were possible, they were also non-negotiable. If I could master a move, I must. If I could World-qualify, I would. To fall short of my capabilities would be a let-down — not only to myself, but to my team.
While my overarching goal was to be a great dancer, that internal pressure was more powerful than I bargained for. World-qualifying represented so much more than the competition itself; it meant honouring my teachers’ effort, setting an example for younger dancers, empowering peers with shared goals, and earning my friends’ unconditional enthusiasm. It meant shattering limits, rewriting stories, and proving my priorities were bigger than my barriers. I couldn’t control my circumstances, but I could control my commitment. If my goal took 30 years, fine. But it would take something devastating to end my career before completing my bucket list.
“While I felt I didn’t have time to dance, I realised the truth was far worse: I just didn’t want to”
Gabrielle Siegel
Nothing could have prepared me for the anticlimactic reality of simply being done.
I injured my back a few weeks before an Oireachtas I’d been dreading. After posting my best results the year before, I’d come into 2024 keen to maintain momentum. But after missing Nationals for a judging conflict and enduring a rough work year, I’d entered autumn out of shape, under-practiced, and mortified by my dancing.
This was hardly the first time circumstances felt stacked against me. I’d joyfully taken extreme measures throughout my career, dancing in parking lots during the COVID lockdowns, travelling two hours each way to class in college, and running stamina drills at 11pm, when I was close to Open Championship. At the hardest points of my work and personal life, dance had been the E6000 gluing my mental health back together. While I felt I didn’t have time to dance, I realised the truth was far worse: I just didn’t want to.
My back injury was painful, but I felt only relief. When my physical therapist assured me she’d have me ready for Oireachtas, I thanked her politely and immediately bowed out. When I hadn’t healed by January, I took the semester off to work through my injury and burnout and come back stronger. It took months to realise I’d retired.
My back may have been the catalyst, but in truth, it took getting injured to find I’d unknowingly fallen out of love with dancing. I was shocked. There was no sense to it. I love my school, the art form, and the community more than ever. I felt no animosity, and no experience had caused the shift. I just didn’t want to dance.
Accepting retirement brought immense freedom, but there was a quiet devastation that came alongside. I was crushed that I didn’t miss dancing — how could something that once meant everything to me now mean so little? Moreover, I had vowed to never quit before I World-qualified — could I just abandon that promise?
“It took getting injured to find I’d unknowingly fallen out of love with dancing”
Gabrielle Siegel
Nothing in that goal inspired or excited me anymore; if anything, it just felt exhausting. But I still felt an overwhelming sense of obligation. I had voiced my commitment so many times, to myself and others, that it felt almost morally wrong to give up. But when I stepped back, I realised I’d been clinging so hard to the specifics of my goal, I’d lost sight of why I wanted it in the first place. Where World-qualification had once represented the pinnacle of my passion for dance, I was now just trying to prove I could do it, which didn’t feel good enough.
It was heartbreaking to admit it no longer resonated, especially given how much time, effort, and money I had dedicated to its pursuit. But I felt so far from the person who set that goal, and I had better things to do than pursue someone else’s dream.
When I tell people I failed, they always say I didn’t. But I find empowerment in knowing I did fail, and it didn’t matter. The waypoints I passed mattered so much more. I reached Open Championship in my late 20s. I made lifelong friends. I learned to be vulnerable and bounce back from disappointment. I (very temporarily) got my splits. I learned how to perform. I learned Irish dance’s secret language. I helped advocate for change within a community that matters so much to me. I learned how to be bad at something and get much better at it. My successes and failures alike are gifts far bigger than dance itself, and far bigger than any goal could represent alone.
“My successes and failures alike are gifts far bigger than dance itself”
Gabrielle Siegel
I don’t know if my goals were really within reach, but the cost of finding out was too high. I chose failure because success was no longer right for me. Goals matter when they represent things that matter. But if they no longer serve us, it’s not just OK to give up — it’s the kindest thing we can do for ourselves.
We will all fall short of something — in dance, or outside of it. We’ll never do all there is to be done; even a multiple-time world champion has to stop somewhere. If everything ends at some point, we’re free to choose what’s right for us now — whether that’s striving unapologetically for a goal that resonates, or letting go of one that doesn’t. There’s no threshold where we earn the right to aspire, nor the right to move on.
I know dancing is always here for me if I want to return, but I’m not counting on that. Dance will forever be part of my life, through writing, spectating, spending time with my dance family, or simply living as the person dance helped me grow into. Meanwhile, the gaps dance used to fill have helped me discover who I am without it, become who I want to be going forward, and embrace the uncertainty of what that future looks like. My dreams are within reach, but strictly optional. If I can give myself freedom to fail, I’ve already won.
Follow Gabrielle Siegel on Instagram.
