Memories

December 17, 2015, what a beautiful day, the first day of winter break! 7:00 a.m. I woke up the sound of my phone buzzing. It was my dance friend in our group message: “Everyone tell their parents to check their emails right now.” How cryptic. I relayed this message to my mom, who in turn pulled up her email. After just twelve seconds, though it felt like ten minutes, my mom let out a bereaved sigh, “Steph died.” What? That isn’t possible, I just saw her a few days ago. As I replayed those two words over and over again in my mind, I experienced feelings of confusion, shock, denial, loss, anger, and landed on the utmost sadness. Stephanie owned the dance studio I had attended since I was seven years old, my second home for the past eight years.
Over the next few days, the Grace Studios community grew together like never before. We danced, talked, laughed, cried, and grieved as a family. The other studio owner, Christy, worked hard to provide us with whatever we needed to cope with this sudden and unexpected change. She organized an event at the studio where we decorated picture frames that would be used to hang pictures of Steph all over the studio; and we wrote notes to her to express our feelings in a healthy way. We also made bracelets with purple string, our studio color, so we could wear them and always have a piece of her with us. I never took mine off, and played with it when I felt overwhelmed or stressed. The bracelet was so important to me because it was my last tangible connection to Steph.
The following summer, my family and I went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. I was trying to take some cool dance-move pictures in the canyon, and at some point during my photoshoot, the bracelet came off. I did not notice, however, until we were driving out of the park. I was devastated. That was my last connection to Stephanie, and I lost it. How could I insult her memory like that? How could I face our July nationals competition without her wrapped around my wrist twenty-four/seven?
As it turned out, all I needed was that trip to nationals to ease my worries. We had pulled all the stops that spring semester to put together dances to honor Stephanie’s memory. Throughout the process, we had grown extremely close, both as a team and a family. The eleven girls I was dancing with everyday became my best friends. That season, we had constantly won competitions and shone on stage because our connection was genuine. For an all-company routine, when all 50 competitive dancers danced, we tap danced to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” Stephanie had wanted to do something like this for years. It felt right that we all be on stage to honor her in this way.
We made it to the finals showcase where the top-scoring routines in every category would compete for the championship. Before the show started, we gathered in a private room to talk about Steph, the past few months, and how we would move on into the next season and beyond. It was overwhelmingly emotional, but also extremely heart-warming, motivational, and exciting. After a group hug and chant to get us hyped up, we lined up in the wings to do the dance one last time. Between each dance there was a one to two minute break to give the judges time to finish scoring the previous routine and prepare for the next. As we waited for our dance to start, everyone was so antsy listening for the announcer to invite us on stage. During the brief interlude they would play music, and suddenly “September” by Earth, Wind and Fire sounded throughout the auditorium. This caught our attention like a fire alarm. “September” was Stephanie’s song. We knew she was in the room with us, on stage with us, and in the audience, ready to watch us crush this dance for her.
An hour later...“And your 2016 National Grand Champions… Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Grace Studios!” The room erupted in confetti and applause, and we all hugged, screamed, and cried. In that moment, which I got to share with my closest friends, I realized that there was no way I would ever “lose” Stephanie. Of course, there are days when I wish I could talk to her or get her advice. She left behind a whole studio of dancers as well as two children, aged eleven and sixteen at the time, who need their teacher and their mother every day. Twisting a bracelet or listening to a song will never replace what could be a hug or a phone call. Nevertheless, those memories keep us bound tightly together, even though she’s gone.
When someone we care deeply about passes away, it can be hard to imagine our lives without them. This is because sometimes we don’t consider the strength and comfort of our memories. They also serve as a reminder that nobody is ever gone for good. Sometimes a certain song will play, or a certain smell will waft through the air that directs our minds towards a memory of that person.
Saying goodbye before we all went to different states for college, my two best dance friends and I spent hours watching old dance recital videos dating back to 2007. Every now and then a dance would spark a memory of Steph that would make us burst out laughing, maybe shed a few tears, but warmed our hearts regardless. We never knew how important a pink tutu from 2010, a sparkly cowboy hat from 2012, or so many songs she choreographed dances to would be for us, so many years later.
Stephanie will always be with me when I need her, on the stage and off. When I took the stage for the final time my senior year she was with me, just like she had been with me at nationals two years prior. My “bracelet” wasn’t made of string; it was made from my love for and all the memories of her. Every time I talked to her, took a dance class from her, heard her sing along to Broadway music, had her shiny red lipstick smeared across my cheek, or wore a costume decked out in sparkles and strange accessories, I was making my bracelet. I now wear that bracelet every