It’s the big things, too…
I’ve been trying to write this post for a few days, but in all honesty I’ve been avoiding it because it’s going to be really freaking hard. My last post was all about the little, everyday things that reminded me of Libby and made me miss her so much.
But the big things are just as hard.
This past weekend was a very big thing. It was supposed to be Libby’s first dance competition of the season. Now, if you’re unversed in the craziness that is the competitive dance world, let me fill you in — these things are an adrenaline-fueled, weekend-long marathon of dance. Libby had been practicing her routines and solo since late August. Eight of them, to be exact.
I have never seen anyone so excited about anything than my baby girl was about this competition season.
The passion just poured out of her every time she talked about her routines. She was not only part of the dances this year — she was a BIG part. And for the first time ever, she had been asked to dance in routines with the oldest girls at the studio. She was so freaking proud — my 10 year-old, being lifted and swung around by high school girls that she absolutely worshipped.
And her solo…. Her solo was completely out of her comfort zone, and she was ALL ABOUT IT. If you haven’t seen Libby dance, she is just, in a word, beautiful. Graceful, elegant — long lines, legs for miles, perfectly pointed toes. Her previous routines had totally captured that grace and poise and she did very well when competing.
But this year, well, her routine was to the soundtrack from the horror movie IT, and both the music and the dance were terrifying in the best possible way. Libby played Georgie and danced with a paper boat and acted creepy and scared and did weird, freakily-flexible exorcist-style moves and it was just epic.
Instagram post by Libby’s dance teacher, Emily.
It would’ve been epic.
Would’ve been.
Except she never got to do it. She never got to do any of her routines on stage, which is where she turned on like a light and shined. She worked so hard all year, and never got to perform. Never got to dance in her costumes and makeup. She died a month too soon.
And so, this weekend, I dealt with BIG hard things. I went to the competition. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I watched the other girls dancing and saw the spot they left open where my Libby should’ve been. I watched one of her senior mentors, Taylor, perform a routine called “To Libby,” that she created in my daughter’s honor. I watched as her teachers and teammates carried around a rainbow-colored stuffed bear they called the “Libby Bear.”
Taylor with the “Libby Bear” before performing her solo.
I watched as someone else went up front on the stage and told the emcee her name, choreographer, and studio when her studio’s production number won an award. I tried to be happy for them instead of focusing on the fact that they had chosen Libby as team captain for that number, so it was supposed to be her standing up there representing her team, and I can recall the exact moment that she screamed with excitement and jumped up and down in our kitchen on the day they had chosen her.
I went backstage, where normally I’d be immersed in a flurry of activity helping Libs change her costumes and touch up her makeup, and instead I gave her dance family purple roses with bracelets attached that had messages of positivity and told them that that if Libby were there, she would’ve been cheering them on. I took pictures with people, and gave and received a million hugs, and cheered, and cried, because that’s what Libby would’ve wanted me to do.
But damn, it was hard. It was so, so hard. I was sad, thinking about all of the mother/daughter things I was missing out on that weekend, and watching Libby’s teammates and teachers cry because they missed her, too.
I was angry watching everyone around me. There were so many girls — hundreds of girls. Why was MY daughter the one who wasn’t there? Why did this have to happen to HER? Why did all the other parents get to cheer for their kids onstage, and I didn’t?
I felt empty seeing the holes in the line where my daughter should have been, and even more of a hole in my heart because sometimes I didn’t know what she would’ve been doing if she were there. Due to Covid, the studio waiting area was closed to parents this year, so I never got to see what Libby did in each of her routines. I heard her talk about special moves and lifts and turns, but I never got to see them for myself. The first competition was supposed to be the “big reveal.” The hole in my heart from the absence of getting to see what she worked so hard on was perhaps the most difficult part of the weekend, and it still haunts me.
Libby wouldn’t want me to dwell on the negativity, though. She’d want me to find the positive. She always wanted to find the positive — so here goes.
I felt so unbelievably supported and loved. Libby’s dance family is truly that — a family. Not only did they do everything in their power to honor my daughter, but they made sure that I knew how much my being there to support them meant to everyone. Her teachers and teammates let me know every time I saw them that they were “dancing for Libby,”
and fellow dance moms hugged me and squeezed my hand when they knew things would be difficult. Libby’s dad sat by my side for what amounted to something like fifteen hours of dance routines between Friday and Sunday and navigated the tidal wave of emotions right along with me.
Lastly, I felt insanely proud. So, so proud of my girl. Proud of her hard work, proud of her talent, and mostly proud that she was the kind of human being that could leave such a major impact on every single person around her.
