Grounded in Motion

Author: robsblabs

The Dance Happens During the Transitions

On a rainy day in May, three weeks before our end-of-year recital, I was watching my advanced students rehearse their piece. There were a few challenging elements we had been working on for several months. A younger teacher on my staff had diligently learned and developed conditioning exercises to help them achieve these skills, and almost every one of the dancers had successfully executed them at one time or another.

But the connection between the movements just wasn’t there. They looked like they were running from one element to the next.

So I stopped the music.

“Listen, I can teach a monkey how to do tricks. I understand why you love learning and achieving the tricks. I do. I get it. But the dancing doesn’t happen during the tricks. The dance happens during the transitions. That’s what connects the elements. That’s what breathes life into it. THAT IS WHAT MAKES IT DANCING!”

I have thought of that rainy day, and countless similar ones, many times since I left the studio. For the better part of three years, I worked full-time and went to school full-time. I was constantly finding myself in new situations, meeting new people, and being trained and taught by people younger than I – some half my age.

I felt energized, engaged, inspired, and ready to take on whatever came my way. I was also exhausted, nervous, humbled, and missing time with my friends and family. I felt younger and spry, as if I were back in college or at a dance intensive.

Even after 24 years as a teacher and owner, I hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to be a student. I had spent countless hours in studios adapting to different teachers—the kind and calm ones and the ones who yelled colorful, occasionally degrading things across the room. I learned to take what they had to teach me and perform as well as I could.

But the last time I had been a full-time student was more than 30 years ago.

Unbeknownst to me, I look older than I did in the early ’90s. I guess the head full of silver hair and my willingness to sit in the front row, nodding and listening intently to every teacher, gave something away.

I also showed up on time and dressed for class. Usually a little dolled up. I was genuinely confused by classmates who wandered in late looking as though they had just rolled out of bed. I was even more baffled when someone called in sick because they’d been out too late the night before.

What are they doing?

And then I remembered.

Oh. They’re college kids.

In truth, many of my classmates weren’t traditional college students at all. They were balancing school with young children, spouses, jobs, and family responsibilities. Most of the time, I was in awe of them. They were funny and self-deprecating one minute, astute and badass the next. I envied the long careers ahead of them and also felt protective of them. I wanted them to make it.

I loved nursing school.

I didn’t love having time for almost nothing but work and studying, but I loved being there. Age brings an awareness of how temporary the stages of life are. I knew that if I stayed the course, eventually this one would be behind me.

Getting to be a beginner again—and immersing myself in something I had wanted to do since I wrote my vocational notebook freshman year of high school—was energizing. It was like opening a trap door that led into infinity.

I quickly realized that no matter how hard I tried, I would never catch up to nurses my age who had spent their entire careers in the profession. I would never know it all. Every skill I mastered would reveal something else I didn’t know yet. Rather than feeling discouraged, I felt inspired. There would always be more to learn, another skill to develop, another direction I could take.

I would never be bored.

I was thrilled to graduate. It took about four weeks to take my boards and another three to receive my license. Luckily, there were openings for nurses on the unit where I had worked as a CNA during school, so seven weeks after graduating, I started my first job as an RN.

Almost immediately, people started commenting on my navy scrubs—the color nurses wear at my hospital. I was surprised by how many coworkers congratulated me or simply told me how much they liked seeing me in navy.

Apparently, I looked like a nurse.

My preceptors were patient, respectful, thorough, and kind. We laughed a lot. I was also frustrated at times, mostly by the enormous gap between becoming licensed to practice nursing and actually knowing how to be a nurse.

It still amazes me. You graduate from nursing school. You pass the NCLEX. The state issues you a license.

And then you are a registered nurse.

I had never experienced an identity quite like that.

As a dancer, I was reluctant to call myself a dancer for years. I wasn’t sure I had earned the title yet. I’m still not sure what I thought would qualify me. Was it a certain number of years spent training? A certain level of proficiency? Being paid to perform? I don’t know. Oddly enough, I don’t think I became completely comfortable claiming it until after I had left that part of my life behind.

Then I could say easily, I was a dancer. I was a dance teacher.

Now here I was saying, I’m a nurse.

The responsibility felt different. I had always taken teaching seriously. Dance teachers can have an enormous influence on their students, for better or worse, and I understood that what I said and how I taught could stay with a young person long after she left my studio. I wanted my students to discover what they were made of and what they were capable of. I reminded them often that who they were when no one was watching might matter more than anything they could accomplish onstage.

Nursing carried another kind of responsibility. Now the person depending on me might be sick, frightened, unstable, or trusting me to notice something important. Thinking too hard about that could be overwhelming.

And yet, I was enormously proud to be a nurse. I felt as though I had been admitted into this remarkable group of brilliant, quirky, observant advocates.

And, dare I say it, badasses.

At first, I felt as if everyone around me—including the patients—knew more than I did. I was task-oriented and painfully aware of my lack of fluidity with many of the hard skills. I didn’t speak up much, and I rarely asked patients if they had questions.

Whenever I could, I rounded with the doctors. I listened to them explain things to patients and families, partly so I could learn to recognize clinical patterns and partly so I could understand what I might need to explain again later.

One day, I was rounding with a physician who had known his patient for years. He was explaining something to her, and I could tell she wasn’t understanding him. I don’t remember what the issue was or what he was recommending. What I do remember is the uncomfortable internal debate about whether I should say something.

I stood there listening for a couple of minutes.

Finally, I interrupted.

I explained the same concept in a different way, one I thought might make more sense to her. And suddenly, it did. She understood what the doctor was recommending and agreed to it.

It was a small moment, but something shifted for me.

A patient may be living in her own body, with her own disease and her own circumstances, but that doesn’t mean she understands what is happening to her or has all the information she needs to make a decision. Providers don’t always have enough time to address every question or concern. And often, patients haven’t had enough time to absorb what they’ve just heard to even know what questions they want to ask.

But I knew something about that.

I had spent decades watching people learn. I knew how to recognize when someone wasn’t understanding what was being presented, and I knew how to approach the same idea from another direction. I had done it countless times with dancers whose bodies and brains processed information differently.

I hadn’t stopped being a dance teacher when I became a nurse.

I had simply brought the teacher with me into a different room.

Nursing school had taught me how much of nursing involves teaching. But as a brand-new nurse, I had been so consumed with completing tasks and performing hard skills that I had temporarily lost my voice.

I found it again that day.

My patient understood.

And the doctor wasn’t one bit irritated that the brand-new nurse had interrupted him. That helped too.

There is a lot I don’t know each time I arrive at work. I don’t know which patients I’ll care for. I don’t know how the patients from my previous shifts are doing that day, and I usually don’t know which of my teammates will be working.

I don’t know how the trajectory of my nursing career will unfold, and I have no idea what opportunities lie ahead of me.

But I do know this: learning something new, no matter the subject, has a familiar rhythm. It is always a transition. It involves risk and discomfort, but it also involves joy, timing, and a little luck.

Like a dance that never really ends, the best part is in the thick of the mess—getting from one element, one trick, to the next.

That’s what makes a dancer the one we can’t take our eyes off of. It isn’t just the tricks she can execute. It’s the way she moves between them—with purpose, intention, and joy. She listens to the music. She adapts to what’s happening around her. And when something doesn’t go quite as planned, she keeps dancing.

October 4, 2026
What I’m Thankful For

Originally published in December 2018, after Thanksgiving.

For many Thanksgiving dinners while I was growing up, we passed a chalice of wine around the table. Before taking a sip, each of us had to say what we were thankful for. Of course, we usually named the familiar things: family, food, friends. This year, I want to express gratitude for something different.

I’m thankful for dance, yoga, and the ability to be physically active. Movement is therapy for me.

The first week of my senior year in high school, my brother Joe died suddenly. Just after midnight, my dad, mom, two brothers, and I were awakened and told the shocking news. I can see now how profoundly that moment changed me.

A week later, one of my teachers handed back a homework assignment I had completed just hours before I learned Joe had died. Staring at it, I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I realized that the person I had been before Joey died was gone. Nothing about me felt the same, though I couldn’t put my finger on how I had changed.

For several years, I struggled to concentrate on schoolwork, reading, and tasks that kept me sitting still. The loss set something in motion: a deep commitment to spending much of my time in my body. One thing I could do well was dance. My strong academic background carried me through senior year, but by the time I started college a year later, studying seemed impossible.

Heartbroken and in shock, the only time I felt good was when I was dancing. After a semester as a nursing major, I changed my major to dance. For several hours each day, my body felt strong and healthy. I could connect with myself without having to face the full weight of my sadness. I was physically tired and slept well. And in dance class, my teachers’ steady, constructive feedback kept me present and mindful of what I was doing in each moment.

When grief washed over me like a massive wave, knocking me down and leaving me gasping for air, I could recover. Sometimes waking up was the hardest part. In my dreams, Joey was alive. I’d feel that moment of happiness, quickly followed by the dread of realizing all over again that he was gone. I could get out of bed because I had somewhere to go where, at least physically, I felt good.

At the time, I didn’t know that physical activity can affect mood and the body’s response to stress. I was simply doing what helped me survive. I’m deeply thankful for my career teaching dance and yoga. In each class, I help my students be present and care for their bodies, hearts, and minds, while sharing tools that can support their physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being.

Like many dancers as they age, I’ve reached a point where dancing the way I did in my 20s or 30s isn’t possible—or even safe. So I practice yoga. My practice helps me manage and care for old physical wounds. It also isn’t lost on me that my favorite yoga poses are heart-opening postures. The healing of my heart is what led me to yoga, and I will always be grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Robin

October 4, 2026
A Letter to My Students

At the close of the 2022–23 season

The 2022–23 season will be my last with CGPAC. I’m stepping away from teaching to pursue nursing—a career that will bring together my passions for the human body and the human condition, and help me realize a potential I’ve been drawn to almost as long as I’ve wanted to dance.

In our time together, you have taught me invaluable lessons. You have shown me love, humor, defiance, grace, strength, determination, joy, beauty, perseverance, and commitment. Together, we have faced countless challenges and celebrated countless successes. From you, I’ve learned patience, the power of listening and observing, and how important it is to be genuine and authentic. But what stays with me most is the joy, laughter, and love.

I hope you come to recognize your own potential. You don’t need me—or anyone else—to realize it. Everything you need is already within you. Take a moment to be with yourself, listen inwardly, and recognize all that you are capable of.

In a world so driven by extrinsic motivation, it is easy to forget that true happiness comes from realizing our own potential and uplifting those around us. In dance training, self-awareness and intrinsic motivation are essential to growth. But their value goes far beyond beautiful lines, jumps, and turns. They can become a path to knowing yourself. Dance is the gorgeous vehicle through which we practice keeping an open mind, staying eager to learn, applying what we know, and following through on what we begin.

It isn’t easy to walk away from a career I love, full of people I love. But what’s right isn’t always easy, and this is the right step for me. Besides, let’s face it: I’m not getting any younger! Along with my marriage, teaching you and co-owning CGPAC with Amy for 24 years are the achievements I’m proudest of. I know I’m a better person because of my time with you.

CGPAC is still bursting with love, growth, and progress. It remains committed to quality education in dance, theater, and music, as well as to the development of young people and our community. Miss Amy and my colleagues are incredible teachers, mentors, choreographers, artists, and friends, with so much love and talent to share with you.

Thank you for the privilege of being your teacher.

Lots of love, now and always,
Miss Robin

June 5, 2023
Happy Birthday, Joe

Originally written in 2019, when Joe would have turned 50 and 30 years had passed since his death.

My brother Joe would have turned 50 today. Last month marked the 30th anniversary of his death. He was only 19, a month shy of 20, when he died. He has been gone 10 years longer than he lived, and I have lived almost twice as long without him as I did with him. Today, I am 28 years older than he was when he died. That is impossible for me to reconcile. No matter how old I get, in my heart and mind he is still my big brother.

Our siblings are part of our identity. Growing up, they witness our lives; we know them, and they know us, better than anyone else. My twin brother Grady and I are the youngest in our family. We were born into a world with two older brothers, Cliff and Joe. Our bonds began by circumstance and became part of who we are. We depended on one another for teasing, support, fun, arguments, generosity, selfishness, secrets, betrayals, physical fights, and protection—and for joining forces, sometimes for and sometimes against our parents.

These dynamics confused my parents, who were both only children. They simply couldn’t understand how you could threaten someone with a butcher knife one minute and go outside together to play catch the next. Luckily for us, we loved and liked each other in equal measure.

When Joey died, the loss left us unsettled as we struggled to find our places in the changed family. Only now, 30 years later, have I come to understand that we didn’t—or couldn’t—reposition ourselves at all. We spent decades trying to adapt to the holes in our family’s nucleus: the first when Joe died, and another nine years later when my dad died.

I can vividly picture Joe walking into a room, jiggling his car keys, the front pockets of his jeans turned slightly out, his Oxford shirt mostly untucked, dark curly hair like a halo around his head, green eyes twinkling, and a huge smile on his face. Joe had an instinct for humor that was impossible to teach. His comedic timing was incredible—he just got it. He was usually laughing about something, his energy kinetic and warm. If he wasn’t entering a room talking or laughing, he was humming and drumming along to Bob Seger, Clapton, Springsteen, or another classic rock artist who met his approval.

A great music enthusiast, he read The Rolling Stone Record Guide cover to cover multiple times. A guide intended as reference material was a feast for a trivia buff and voracious reader like him.

Joe was my mentor in many things, but especially music. “Robin, there will be no B96 played in this house!” I desperately wanted him to think I was smart and cool, so I obediently listened to and learned to love classic rock. But first, we had a couple of disco parties at the neighbors’ house, where all three of my brothers stood in the street holding up Steve Dahl posters made by my brother Cliff and chanting, “Disco sucks! Disco sucks!”

Joey had a way of teasing me and making me feel better at the same time. The summer between sixth and seventh grade, one of my closest friends and I ended up with the same bathing suit. She was much thinner than I was, which caused me some angst. Joe’s response was, “Oh, Robin, she will look like a little twig in it and you will look like a NICE. PORK. SAUSAGE!”

Joe and I shared sturdy builds and a great fondness for food. Of course, a pork sausage appealed to him, but none of the girls photographed in their bathing suits in the pages of Seventeen magazine looked like pork sausages! Even so, I felt better.

I definitely wasn’t as intellectually curious as Joe was. Few people were—other than everyone else in my family. I leaned more toward physical pursuits: dancing and working out, my appearance, my peers, and thumbing through fashion magazines. This troubled Joe. One summer, he spent a lot of his free time following me around and reading aloud from Time magazine. His frustration grew as I stalked around, rolling my eyes and sighing.

Finally, he made me a deal. He said he would leave me alone if I could name the presidents of the United States backward, starting with Ronald Reagan. With a lot of coaching, we got back to Herbert Hoover.

“Come on, Robin, he served more terms than any other president!”

I replied, “Wasn’t he the one who was married to Marilyn Monroe?”

Exasperated, Joe froze, looked over his glasses through the tops of his eyes, and said, “President DiMaggio, Robin? President DiMaggio!”

We didn’t get any farther. I now understand that he was trying to get me to say FDR.

We were two years and three months apart, and three school years apart; he was a senior in high school when I was a freshman. Only two inches taller than me, Joey would stand as tall as he could, puff out his chest, rear back, and proudly introduce me to people as his “little sister Robin.” It filled me with love, pride, and a sense of protection.

Joey loved music as much as he loved books. When he turned 16, he drove our mom’s hand-me-down, two-door, V8, rear-wheel-drive Oldsmobile Delta ’88. He kept a boom box in the front seat, plugged into the cigarette lighter, and about 200 cassette tapes loose in the front and back seats. Every time he turned a corner, the tapes slid one way or the other, thrashing around—not that we could hear them; the music was too loud.

Luckily for Grady and me, Joe drove us to school every day during our freshman year, so we didn’t have to take the bus. We did, however, have to ride in the back seat because Joe also drove two of his friends to school. Every morning, we climbed in, and Joe drove us to school talking, singing, playing air guitar, drumming, and fishtailing the whole way. We arrived nauseous, bruised, and slightly hard of hearing, but extremely grateful we hadn’t ridden the bus—and proud to walk into school with our senior brother. It was another example of the paradoxical ways our siblings look out for us.

Joe read constantly from the time he was about two and knew more trivia than anyone. He loved sports, especially Major League Baseball, and was a fanatic about sports statistics. Instead of playing sports in high school, he competed on the Academic Bowl team, announced varsity girls’ basketball games, served as student council vice president, umpired Little League games, and wrote for the underground newspaper.

Wise beyond his years, Joe had a revolutionary outlook on the establishment. He admired men and women who fought on behalf of the underground, the underrepresented, the underprivileged, and the underserved. He had a profound interest in current events, the human condition, and the environment. When he died, we set up a way for people to make donations to Greenpeace in his name.

He could do uncanny impressions of Jesse Jackson and John Belushi, and he loved an audience. At the same time, he knew how to make people feel seen. His gregarious charm helped him connect with people easily. That connection has stayed with us. In the years since his death, I’ve received many notes and emails from people he connected with.

I credit Joe with my love of classic rock, great books, and true friends. He instilled in me intellectual curiosity, enthusiasm for food, a revolutionary outlook, and the ability to laugh at myself. I’m glad I see glimpses of him in my nieces Mary, Molly, and Rory, and my nephew Mitchell.

Whenever I hear a song by Bob Seger, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Bruce Springsteen, Eric Clapton, Neil Young, David Bowie, James Taylor, or John Lennon—or hear a John Belushi line—no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I can hear Joe belting it out. I can see him playing air guitar, turning cartwheels, or air-drumming away as if it were yesterday.

Of course, I’ve tried to age him along with us. I just can’t seem to do it. I can’t make him older than he was when he died, and I can’t change the fact that I’ve grown older than my big brother ever got to be.

It’s okay. As my brother Cliff says, I think I’ll keep him right where he was—because he was pretty cool.

October 13, 2019
Erin’s Story

Originally published in 2019, when Erin was 28.

Eight-year-old Erin Elizabeth Wilhelmi, accompanied by her sisters Katelyn and Sheila, walked into the basement of Cary Methodist Church for the first ballet-and-tap combination class I taught as a studio owner. All three were bare-legged and wearing bright-colored leotards. They had the longest, thinnest legs I had ever seen. I was enchanted by their huge almond-shaped eyes and the fact that they never stopped smiling.

Their mom, Maggie, was just as smiley, long, and lean. Breathless and excited to try a brand-new studio where her daughters could learn dance, she introduced the five of us. I began class, unaware that this was the beginning of relationships that would become so important to me and leave such lasting impressions. I never stopped feeling as enchanted by Erin as I was that first day.

Erin as a child with her family (lower right)

At 28, Erin is a Fulbright Scholar, high school Spanish teacher, musician, dancer, choreographer, world traveler, homeowner, sister, daughter, granddaughter, niece, and friend. She earned a BA in Spanish Education, with a minor in music, from Hope College in Holland, Michigan.

As a Fulbright Scholar, Erin lived in Argentina and taught at the University of San Juan, ASIC English Institute, and Americas Public Library. While there, she traveled to Uruguay, Brazil, Peru, and Chile. Her travels have also taken her to France, the British Isles, Spain, and many destinations in the United States.

Erin is a freelance accompanist. She plays piano and choreographs for Cary-Grove High School’s Swing Choir, and accompanies rehearsals and performances for C-G’s musicals. In addition to teaching Spanish at John Hersey High School, she will direct Hersey’s show choir, Ladies First, during the 2019–20 school year.

In high school and college, Erin danced and sang in numerous performing groups and shows. She has sung at many weddings and funerals, and played lead roles in musicals that showcased her wonderful comedic timing. She was also one of the most beautiful dancers at my studio.

I sat down with Erin several months ago to learn how she had accomplished so much at such a young age—and how she managed her demanding work, travel, and social schedule while remaining happy, graceful, calm, funny, kind, and energetic.

Erin and her sisters Kate and Sheila

Growing up as the middle of three sisters, Erin saw herself as a nurturer and a helper—the one in the family who filled whatever role was needed. In this way, she said, she was much like Switzerland: she wants everyone to get along and will do what it takes to help make that happen. Perhaps she’s a feistier Switzerland, with the fortitude and strength to assert herself when necessary.

Erin was raised by parents who were wonderful role models and set high standards and expectations for their children. She credits them, especially her mother, with first teaching her to think of others.

“I think it started with my parents, especially my mom. She was always making me think about other people, whether it was writing thank-you notes or… Who was it who phrased it this way? Maybe my mom, but we said there are the ‘Here I am’ people or the ‘There you are’ people. My mom taught us to reflect on this, even after family events. She really ingrained in us the importance of thinking about how we wanted to treat other people. My mom is a very ‘There you are’ person, and I think going abroad was also a huge influence. It made me understand that the world has so many different people, customs, and communities. I wanted to understand them. I think that’s when I started channeling the ‘There you are.’ So I would be a listener, and I learned to listen more than I talked.”

Erin and her mom, Maggie

Erin describes herself as a teacher, learner, and musician, and credits music with helping make her a team player. When I asked what she loves most about music, she responded:

“I am so grateful for music. I think both music and dance are and were an escape and a stress relief for me, a way to express myself. I still use music as a way to de-stress and challenge my mind. I feel that way with dance and choreography, too. It puts me at peace and makes me happy, and it makes people around me happy. It can be me playing piano while my sisters sing, or playing for Swing Choir or for the musical. It’s really cool. Whether that’s in the pit with these other amazing people or accompanying these kids who are having so much fun singing and dancing, it’s like, ‘Oh, I get to be a part of that!’”

Practically every time we talked about music and dance, Erin became emotional. She credits her training and experiences in both with having a huge influence on her life and giving her the work ethic and discipline she needed.

When I asked what she loves most about teaching, Erin said:

“I like seeing kids as individual people, and I think that is part of why I love teaching so much. I meet these kids and I don’t know everything that they are dealing with in their life, but for 50 minutes I can form a relationship with them and make them feel seen, and make them think about something outside of themselves. For a high school student, that is more of an uphill battle to fight. But it’s something that is important to me to do.”

Erin describes going to Hope College as a pivotal time in her life. She began to understand how much her parents had done for her, while also realizing that she could form and express opinions and make decisions without consulting them first.

As a Spanish major, she was required to spend a semester abroad. One of the most important decisions she had to make was where to study.

“I had this amazing, super-cool Argentinian professor who would take us out for small-group coffee dates to talk with us about the study-abroad program, our thoughts, ideas, and plans. I asked her a bunch of questions, and she started talking about Buenos Aires and Argentina and her life there, because she was born and raised there. What she had to say about Argentina was fascinating to me.

“I thought, ‘Well, I feel like at some point in my life I will go to Spain, because that is where everyone went. It would be cool and different, and I don’t know as much about Argentina. I want to go there.’

“But then I had a small moment of panic after applying to the program through my school. It was a language-intensive program, not a program where Hope took a bunch of students; I would be with students from all over the U.S. I got accepted and then researched Buenos Aires. I found out that it was a huge city and kind of panicked. Then I thought, ‘I don’t think I can do this; I need to go somewhere smaller…’ But then it was the best thing I ever did.”

Erin in Buenos Aires, Argentina

Erin grew to love Buenos Aires. Her host family became her second family, and the friends she made there became lifelong friends. Teary-eyed, Erin said how proud she is to feel that way about Buenos Aires. She had not only conquered a completely foreign city but had come to adore it.

That was brave, considering that before going to Argentina, Erin had never traveled outside the United States except for a resort trip to Mexico. The experience sparked a sense of adventure in her. She now has a rule that she will travel somewhere at least one weekend each month.

Erin had a feeling she would return to Argentina. She did, as a Fulbright Scholar. A passing mention by a friend led to months of preparation as she applied for the program.

The Fulbright Program began in 1946 with the passage of the Fulbright Act, which used proceeds from the sale of surplus war property to fund educational exchanges. The program offers opportunities for students and young professionals to pursue graduate study, advanced research, university teaching, and primary and secondary school teaching around the world. It awards grants across many fields and operates in more than 140 countries.

Six months after graduating from Hope College, Erin returned to Argentina as a teacher and Fulbright Scholar. It was her first experience living alone, so she accepted every social opportunity offered by the friends she made at the university, took tela (silks) classes, read, and traveled. She found the experience empowering and liberating, and it taught her to enjoy and embrace alone time.

Her job was to teach English classes designed as a cultural exchange. She offered a United States point of view, told through her own lens, on culture, pop culture, history, politics, and whatever her students wanted to discuss. The work pushed her to examine current American trends and fads, and to learn more about her own country.

Argentina is primarily Catholic, and Pope Francis was born there. Erin was raised Catholic, so I asked whether she had attended church while living there. She described the church there as very literal and strict. As a result, she didn’t attend Mass while living there and avoided religious discussions. Erin describes herself as Catholic by background and finds solace in attending Mass at home, but says that isn’t how she would describe her faith. She identifies her faith as spiritual rather than sectarian.

Erin was in Argentina while Barack Obama was president, and she was surprised and gratified to hear Argentine people express their affection and admiration for him. Now more than ever, we need these cross-cultural personal connections and acts of ambassadorship.

I marvel at people of her generation and their willingness to travel, study, learn, and take a stand. They live in a world that encourages them to share themselves in countless ways, not all of them good. Yet Erin, along with many people of her generation whom I know and have had the privilege of teaching, has used the “age of information” to create a life and experiences that have made—and will continue to make—a difference in the world.

Erin is a professional woman who has traveled the world and is an incredible teacher who has experienced places and things I haven’t. Yet part of me will always first see the darling, eager, hardworking, magical little girl I taught on my very first day as a dance studio owner.

Her energy is even more positive, fresh, and kind than it was when I first met her. Elegant and gorgeous on the outside, her beauty emanates from her courageous, brilliant, generous, creative heart.

This is only part of her story; we talked for hours. Our conversation was enlightening, interesting, and fun, and I’m thrilled to see where the rest of her story goes!

August 28, 2019
It’s Just Love

Originally published in January 2019. The opening and dedication reflect the moment when Lisa had recently received her diagnosis.

The intention behind starting my blog is to highlight women I know well: women who have inspired me, women I have taught, women who have taught me, and women I love.

This post has been at my fingertips for several weeks, buried beneath the responsibilities of the holidays and my studio. Sharing other people’s points of view on my blog is my ultimate goal. Still, I feel it’s important to share my positive experience as a member of the Delta Gamma sorority at NIU. I’m not writing to lecture anyone about sorority membership or its exclusivity. In fact, that part has always felt a little strange to me, and I know it can seem unappealing—even offensive—to many people.

This post is about friends I have continued to cherish and make a priority. I first learned the value of these relationships from my mother, now a 50-year member of Kappa Kappa Gamma. She has always had wonderful friends. She taught me to value and maintain my relationships with women, and showed me how much they enrich our lives. It may be the most important lesson she taught me.

On this snowy Saturday, as I was writing this post, I received an email from one of the 12 women it’s about. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer 14 days earlier. She didn’t know many details yet, but expected to go through at least a year of intense treatment.

Lisa, I dedicate this post to you. I know you’ve got this, but you need to know that WE’VE got this, too. We’ll do everything we can to help you fight this fight, and we’ll love you through every weird, tiring, funny, painful, and happy moment ahead.

The way sorority life is typically depicted in television shows and movies couldn’t be farther from what I experienced in college. Sorority girls are often portrayed as shallow, perfect-looking mean girls who are out for themselves and willing to humiliate or sabotage anyone they see as competition.

The young women who recruited me into Delta Gamma, the women recruited alongside me, and the young women we recruited were all darling, kind, funny, smart, and self-deprecating. They have become fixtures in my life. There are 12 of us from two pledge classes who have stayed in close contact and get together regularly. We graduated from college 25 years ago. Since then, we’ve kept three annual traditions and added other impromptu outings, lunches, and dinners whenever we can.

My favorite is our annual holiday party. We take turns hosting it, and depending on what works best, it either kicks off or closes out the holiday season. The tradition began 25 years ago, and we haven’t missed a year. Every year, we exchange ornaments. Whenever I unpack them and put them on my tree, I’m reminded of my loving sisters. This year, our party began my holiday season and helped me see the chaos of the rest of the month through loving, grateful eyes.

In the beginning, we shared secrets, clothes, academic pressure, themed-party outfits, dances, countless crushes, late-night talks, studying, workouts, heartbreaks, meals, libations, classes, meetings, rush, philanthropy, advice, tears, makeup, cleaning duties, “flushing!”—and just about everything people share when they live together.

After graduation, we supported each other as we started careers, shared apartments, searched for “the one,” got engaged and married, started families, bought houses, and became adults.

Now, in our mid-to-late 40s, we’ve been there for one another through our parents’ declining health, illness, and deaths; divorces and second marriages; infertility; financial ups and downs; raising teenagers; and our own health challenges and those of our spouses. When we made our commitment to Delta Gamma, we agreed to be one another’s champions in our absence and friends always. We do just that.

When we plan an event, we work tirelessly to find a date everyone can attend. That’s nearly impossible, but it never makes us cancel. We know some of us getting together is better than none of us. When one of us loses a loved one, someone takes charge of ordering flowers and a memorial gift, signed by all of us. Whoever is available attends visitations and memorial services. It’s understood that those who are there represent those who couldn’t be.

We’ve made a point of meeting and getting to know each other’s families and friends outside Delta Gamma, and asking about them with genuine interest and concern. When one of us is recovering from surgery or facing another health challenge, we do our best to help, including joining neighborhood meal trains and offering support.

We don’t live close to one another, but luckily, with the exception of two of us, we’re all in northern Illinois. Recently, through the blessing of social media, we learned that one of the DGs from my pledge class had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Through Facebook Messenger, 60 of us rallied together, sending her gift cards, meals, and gifts for her daughter. Some even accompanied her to chemotherapy appointments. We’ve since formed a new group and are planning a reunion with DGs who pledged over a 10-year period.

We’re a long way from the practically perfect bodies, faces, and hair of our college days, but every one of these women is more beautiful and stunning to me now than she was 25 years ago. As I pondered why, I realized that after all this time—and through every life event we’ve endured—what remains is love.

It’s just love.

January 20, 2019
I’m Thankful for…

For many Thanksgiving dinners while I was growing up, we passed a chalice of wine around the table and before taking a sip, had to say what we were thankful for. Of course we would respond with the usual “family, food, friends” ; but this year I would like to express my gratitude for something different.

I’m thankful for dance, yoga and the ability to be physically active. It is therapy for me. The first week of my senior year in high school, my brother Joe died suddenly. Each surviving member of my family, my dad, mom, two brothers and I were awakened just after midnight and told the shocking news. In hindsight, only now do I begin to understand how profoundly changed I was in that moment.

One week later, I had a glimpse when one of my teachers handed back a homework assignment I had completed only hours before I found out Joe died. Staring at the assignment, I felt like I had the wind knocked out of me. I realized the person I was before Joey died was gone; nothing about me was the same but I couldn’t put my finger on how I had changed. For several years I struggled to concentrate on schoolwork, reading, and physically passive tasks. What this experience put in motion for me was a deep commitment to spending most of my time in my body. What I was able to do well was dance. From the momentum of a strong academic background, I made it through my senior year; but by the time I started college, a year later, studying seemed impossible.

Heartbroken and in shock, the only time I felt good was while I was dancing. So, after a semester as a nursing major, I changed my major to dance. For several hours each day, my body felt strong and healthy. I could connect to myself without having to acknowledge how sad I was. Physically exhausted, I slept well and I received constant and appropriate attention from teachers in the form of constructive criticism during dance class which kept me present and mindful of what I was doing each moment.

Consequently, when grief would wash over me like a massive wave that knocked me down and left me gasping for air, I could recover. Occasionally, waking up in the morning was the worst part of grieving. Upon waking, my mind would be consumed with a dream I had. In my dreams Joey was alive so there would be that moment of happiness quickly replaced with the dread of realizing, again, that he was gone. I was able to get out of bed because I had somewhere to go where, at least physically, I felt good.

At the time, I had no idea that what I was doing through physical exercise was rebalancing stress hormones and raising endorphins and that there are provable scientific reasons I felt better. I was just doing what helped me survive. For this, I am so thankful for my career teaching dance and yoga. Each class I am helping my students be present and heal their bodies, hearts, and minds while providing them with tools to be physically, emotionally, and spiritually healthy. Just like every aging dancer, I have reached a time when dancing the way I did as a 20 or 30 year old isn’t possible or even safe. As a result, I practice yoga. My practice helps me manage and care for old physical wounds, but it also isn’t lost on me that my favorite yoga poses are heart opening postures. The healing of my heart is what led me to it and I am forever grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Robin

P.S. Yoga is accesible to everyone!! See photos for some of my favorite heart opening postures!! Message me if you need help with your practice!

November 20, 2018
Concerns, Complaints, and Congratulations

Originally published in October 2018.

I teach a gentle yoga class at my dance studio twice a week. All my students are women over 60, including my mother, who is almost 20 years older than I am. Each woman comes to class with her concerns, complaints, wisdom, wit, humor, and willingness to practice yoga.

They arrive stiff, sometimes dealing with arthritis, old athletic injuries, or the effects of recent falls. Many are navigating changes in balance and flexibility after menopause. A few have post-surgical limitations, including being unable to let their heads hang, and many live with chronic pain.

Teaching them has become the highlight of my week. Each one exemplifies what I adore about women. They are willing, coachable, and brave. They’ve chosen to face aging with the support of others—and plenty of humor.

These women faithfully show up for class. Sometimes they gripe about how they feel physically, but they’re always willing to share how they feel emotionally, too. As their yoga teacher, it’s my job to get them out of their heads and into their bodies. But I can’t resist joining the gab session before class. In fact, I’m often guilty of starting a conversation about something on my mind, and they chime in with life experience and support for my latest tribulation. Every time we meet is an opportunity to vent, which means we start and end class 10 minutes late!

Sometimes we begin class sitting on folding chairs, but usually we start cross-legged on the floor. Some of the women use blankets and blocks to support what the yoga community calls “modifications”—adjustments for tight hips, “bad knees,” or newly replaced joints. However we begin, we breathe deeply and turn inward together.

I’m always humbled, and a little amused, by their trust in me. They let me lead them through breathing exercises and mantras while they sit like pretzels with their eyes closed. Once we start moving, though, I’m snapped back to reality: they shamelessly protest my instructions even as they make a valiant effort to follow them.

It’s my responsibility to keep my students safe and make sure they aren’t stretching too far or attempting anything that could cause injury. At the same time, I want them to discover their potential and make changes that help them feel better. Often, one of them reminds me that she has already reached her potential and is as good as she’s going to get!

So I do what any good yoga teacher would do: I keep teaching. One woman will snicker, half the class will obediently get moving, and inevitably someone will bellow, “Robin, that’s just not gonna happen today!”

I respond with solutions involving yoga props, adjustments to body position, and reminders to breathe. Sometimes they tell me the adjustments worked. Other times, my suggestions set off uproarious laughter that sweeps through the whole class—including the teacher.

Even though we spend much of our class laughing, I’m impressed by their progress and eagerness to enrich their lives. They’ve chosen to adapt to the changes they’ve experienced by participating in something supportive, humorous, fun, and healthy.

Congratulations to the women who take my gentle yoga class!

I’m grateful to you for so many reasons. You’ve made me a better yoga and dance teacher. By your example, you’ve shown me how to support one another, how to be brave, how to laugh, and, most of all, how to love each other.

Namaste,

Robin

October 30, 2018