Practice
The days in between the years are the practice.
Often times the days feel long and the years feel short. It’s because you’re preparing for some future version of your life. Also, because every day is another opportunity to rehearse who you’re becoming.
Practice is how you respond when things don’t go your way.
It’s how you speak to yourself after a mistake.
It’s whether you choose courage over comfort.
It’s showing up when no one is keeping score.
That’s why I dance.
The audience sees three minutes of an epic performance.
Three minutes of confidence.
Three minutes of movement.
Three minutes of smiles, synchronization, and applause.
What they don’t see are the months that came before it.
The rehearsals when the choreography refused to stick in my brain.
The countless times the music stopped halfway through because someone missed an eight-count.
The bruises.
The sore muscles.
The self-doubt.
The corrections.
The mirror that reflected every mistake before it ever reflected confidence.
As a former NBA dancer, I know this rhythm well.
Months of hard work…
for three minutes of glory.
And somewhere along the way, I realized something.
The performance was never the point.
The practice was.
Because practice wasn’t teaching me choreography.
It was teaching me discipline.
It was teaching me humility.
It was teaching me how to stay present when I wanted to quit.
How to trust my body.
How to recover after a mistake without letting one missed step become the rest of the routine.
Dance became one of life’s greatest teachers.
Because life moves exactly the same way.
Most of our lives are not lived on stages.
They’re lived in ordinary Tuesdays.
In early mornings.
In difficult conversations.
In choosing patience instead of reactivity.
In sending one more email.
Making one more phone call.
Taking one more walk.
Returning to the gym.
Returning to ourselves.
No audience.
No applause.
No standing ovation.
Just repetition.
The days feel like practice because they are.
The weeks become a collection of those repetitions.
The months invite you to ask,
“Why am I still freaking doing this??!!”
And if you stay with it long enough…
The years answer the question for you.
You realize you were never practicing for the performance.
You were practicing becoming the kind of person who could keep dancing—through uncertainty, disappointment, success, loss, transition, and joy.
The beautiful thing about dance is that eventually the music ends.
The beautiful thing about life is — well it actually doesn’t.
Every conversation is another rehearsal.
Every setback is another correction.
Every ordinary day is another chance to practice becoming the person you’re meant to be.
Maybe that’s why I keep dancing at this point in my life.
Not because I’m chasing another performance.
But because every time the music starts, I’m reminded that who we become is built long before anyone is watching.
And maybe that’s true for all of us.
The life everyone admires is usually only three minutes long.
The practice is where the real story lives.
