Robbed by the Invisible (and How I Took It Back)

Ten years ago, I felt like my future had been stolen by something no one else could see.

I was a senior in high school, right at the peak of the pressure cooker. I was prepping for college auditions, carrying the typical stress of a teenager but with a singular, laser-focused goal: to become a professional dancer. I was ready to leave Las Vegas, to move out of state, and to prove to myself that I had what it took to make it in the real world.

I wasn't just a kid who took ballet once a week. I was operating at a high caliber. I started dancing when I was three years old and entered the competitive world at eight. I had the discipline, the drive, and the trajectory.

But instead of an acceptance letter or a casting call, I got a different kind of life-changing news.

The Diagnosis

The diagnosis didn't happen overnight. I spent a distinct, agonizing year trying to find an answer. I went to five different neurologists in Las Vegas, only to be turned away time and time again. They told me it was just stress. They told me it was "all in my head."

We finally fought for a referral to UCLA. After a year of gaslighting and confusion, I sat down with a neurologist named Dr. Ravin. Within 30 minutes, she knew.

It is a rare disorder where my nervous system effectively has a mind of its own. It manifests as involuntary movements—sometimes slow, twisting, and sustained muscle contractions; other times brief, jerky, 'dance-like' motions. To an outsider, it often looks like a seizure, yet I remain fully conscious throughout.

These 'episodes' are driven by specific triggers. In the beginning, I endured 15 to 30 a day, lasting anywhere from seconds to hours. My primary triggers were emotional stress and physical exertion—at that time, even a simple walk was enough to set me off. Because we didn’t yet understand what was happening, the fear of the unknown fueled my stress, keeping me trapped in a perpetual cycle of involuntary pain.

There was no stopping the episode; I simply had to wait it out.

When she said the name, the relief in the room was breathtaking. I remember my mom asking Dr. Ravin for a hug at the end of the appointment. Finally, she felt hope for her daughter’s life.

But as we left Los Angeles and the reality set in, the relief faded into grief. I realized there was no "cure" that would return me to my old life. I had to build a new normal around a body that felt like it had betrayed me.

The Identity Crisis

For the next few years, my relationship with my body felt like a one-sided conversation. I didn’t know how to bridge the gap or make it love me back; I was just left with the stinging sense of betrayal and disconnection from the skin I was in.

My reality became a "pay to play" system. The cost of physical exertion was a total loss of control. My body would contort, and I’d be wiped out for days. I was robbed by the invisible.

While my friends packed their bags and moved to the meccas of entertainment—New York, California—to chase their dreams, I stayed home. I watched from the sidelines while I was trying to figure out how to walk down the street without triggering an episode.

I felt broken. I felt guilty, as if I had done something wrong—pushed too hard in rehearsal, slept too little—and was being punished for it.

I see that younger version of myself now: a defeated girl grasping for a dream that was no longer hers, trying to convince herself that everything happens for a reason.

My entire sense of self was wrapped up in that one title, leaving me to ask: "If I am not a dancer, then who am I?"

The Search for Answers

I had to learn, out of necessity, how to master my own nervous system. For years, I lived with a pipeline of worries. Would I ever be able to dance again? Would I get to have independence? Could I have children one day?

At the beginning of my diagnosis, I couldn't even take a lap around the small park in the community or get too emotional about something without risking an episode. That was my starting line.

Over time, I worked my way up. I built enough stamina to try everything—Muay Thai, swimming, personal training, cycling. I felt empowered to be able to move again. But none of them were sustainable or compatible for my body. I was stuck in a cycle of pushing too hard, crashing, and recovering.

Then, four years ago, I found Pilates.

It was the first time I found a way to move consistently without "paying" for it later. It worked because it required a deep mind-body connection—that same "mind over matter" focus I had been practicing to manage my stress triggers. I was going to the studio 4–6 times a week. I felt like I had reclaimed something that had been stolen.

The Pivot

But even then, I hit a wall.

I started developing a bad shoulder injury from overuse. I also knew I wasn't engaging my core correctly; I was just "muscling through" the movements. When I reached out to the studio for a private lesson to learn the mechanics, they dismissed me. "Just take a 101 class," they said.

I was disappointed. I had been showing up weekly, committed to the work. As an adult jazz teacher myself, I know the sacrifice it takes for a student to carve out time for a class. I make it a rule never to turn a student away; if I can't answer a question, I find a resource who can. To be dismissed without a single inquiry about why I was struggling felt like a door slamming shut.

But in that moment, I felt a wind of determination. I realized: If I want to be safe, I have to understand the mechanics myself.

Why I Built Stance

I decided to get certified because I wanted to be the guide I never had. My goal became simple: to help people move safely.

Because of my history, I developed a "hyper-awareness" of the body. When you come into Stance, I’m not just watching you move; I’m looking for the tension you hold subconsciously. I’m helping you find that split second where you stop fighting your body and start working with it.

My goal is always the same: to help you find your limits safely, so we can eventually push past them.

My Reality Today

My life looks very different now than it did in those early, chaotic years.

I am no longer at the mercy of my nervous system. Medication has quieted the storm, reducing my episodes from dozens a day to rare occurrences. I’ve developed a precise internal gauge; I can feel the 'aura' of an episode coming on—a specific tension creeping into my muscles that acts as a stop sign. I’ve swapped the high-octane rush of coffee for tea, and I use therapy to manage the mental load.

I also have a partner who understands the rhythm of my life.

I didn't meet my husband until years after my diagnosis, and I admit, I used to worry that a future partner would struggle to love a version of me that came with this much baggage. I feared I would be "too much."

But he proves to me, over and over again, that I am not a burden. He knows that when I say 'I’m tired,' it’s time to quiet the house, take the dogs out, or hold the baby. And on those rare, extreme days where the episodes break through, he is the one walking me to the bathroom and helping me change my clothes.

This was tested most during the birth of our daughter. The epidural triggered a violent, two-hour episode where we could do nothing but wait. But he didn't panic. He sat right there, holding my hand during the split seconds where my body allowed me to rest.

He taught me that I don't have to carry this alone.

The New Stage

Pilates didn't give me dance back—I fought for that myself. But Pilates gave me the structural safety to keep doing it. It is the tool I use to sustain my body so I can live the life I actually want.

And that life is richer than the one I originally planned.

Ten years ago, I thought my life was over because I lost the chance to perform for strangers in a stadium. Today, I realize I have a far more important audience. When I turn on the music in the kitchen and dance with my daughter. I am strong, I am present, and I am joyful.

I also would have never imagined that I would be doing something like this—owning my own Pilates studio. Me, a small business owner? Who would have thought?

I finally have the answer to that terrified question I asked myself all those years ago: "If I am not a dancer, then who am I?"

I am a mother. I am a survivor. I am a guide. And yes, in my own way, on my own terms—I am still a dancer.

If you feel like your body has betrayed you, know that you don't have to just "manage" the decline. You get to discover what you are actually capable of.