A Last Dance, and Letting Go
I looked at my phone the morning after graduation and there it was: the countdown timer I’d set a while back, ticking down the days until we drive Beth-Rose to Calgary for university. A simple number. Fewer digits than I’d prefer. Cold. Unemotional. Relentless.
I wasn’t ready for that number. But honestly, I hadn’t been ready for most of what the past few weeks delivered.
In the span of a very short time, Beth-Rose performed her final recital with Rhythm Dance Academy after twelve years of dance, attended prom, graduated from high school, received a mountain of scholarships, and started preparing for university this fall. Apparently the universe looked at me and decided ripping off one Band-Aid at a time wasn’t quite dramatic enough.
Thirteen years
For thirteen years, Rhythm Dance Academy has been a constant in our family’s life. Thirteen years of classes, rehearsals, competitions, costume fittings, fundraisers, road trips, forgotten water bottles, emergency Starbucks runs, and countless hours spent sitting in theatre seats wondering how it was possible for one child to own so many pairs of dance shoes.
We’ve also spent a small (not that small!) fortune on costumes, entry fees, and every other dance-related cost known to humanity. On the bright side, now that competition season is behind us, I think we can finally afford appetizers when we go out for dinner. Maybe even dessert. Wait…we can afford to go out for dinner!? Let’s not get crazy.
But beneath the jokes, there’s a genuine feeling of loss that comes when something that has occupied such a large space in your life for so long simply… ends.
Beth-Rose started dance at three years old. At the time, “started dance” is perhaps being generous. She mostly bounced. And twirled. And occasionally moved in directions not approved by the instructor. Yet somewhere along the way, dance stopped being something she did and became part of who she is. It gave her confidence, discipline, resilience, leadership, and a work ethic that most adults would envy. It helped transform a shy little girl into a poised young woman.
It also gave her the chance to become something I hadn’t expected: a mentor herself. One of the things I loved most during her final years at RDA was watching younger dancers gravitate toward her. They looked up to her. Trusted her. Wanted to be around her. That’s one of those quiet accomplishments that never appears on a résumé but tells you everything about someone’s character.
The final recital
Last month, Beth-Rose stepped onto the stage at the Port Theatre for her final year-end recital. Three dancers graduated from the studio this year: Beth-Rose, Tessa, and Julia. Each performed a self-choreographed solo. In true Beth-Rose fashion, she not only choreographed her own piece but also helped choreograph the solos of the other two graduates. Apparently, after thirteen years of dance classes, she can hear music and immediately start creating movement, rather than just nodding awkwardly and pretending to know the beat like her father.
The moment that got me most wasn’t her solo. It was seeing the three graduates together at the end of the show. Three young women who had grown up inside that studio. Three dancers who had spent years supporting each other, challenging each other, and sharing experiences most people will never fully understand. Standing there watching them take their final bows together, it stopped feeling like the end of a recital and started feeling like the end of an era.
Which brings me to the person who deserves an enormous amount of credit for all of it: Miss Elise. Over the years, Elise has done far more than teach dance technique. She built a community. She created a place where young people could develop confidence, discipline, creativity, and lifelong friendships. In a small town, that’s more important than most people realize. Growing up isn’t always easy, and young people need places where they genuinely feel they belong. Rhythm Dance Academy became that place for Beth-Rose. So if you’re reading this, Miss Elise: thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.
The walk that stopped time
Of all the moments from graduation season, the one that sticks with me most wasn’t convocation. It wasn’t the scholarships. It wasn’t even prom. It was the graduation walk-up at our local waterfront park in Ladysmith.
The amphitheatre overlooks the ocean, and on this particular day the weather was almost perfect. Not a cloud in the sky, and a cooling breeze that softened as the morning went on. And there was Beth-Rose walking down those stairs beside her best friend Jana, who had flown all the way from Germany to be her date for graduation. As parents, we spend years quietly hoping our kids will find good people in their lives. Watching someone travel halfway around the world to celebrate your daughter is a pretty clear sign that she has.
Standing there watching them walk down together, I had one of those moments where time seems to collapse in on itself. Because I wasn’t just seeing the nearly eighteen-year-old young woman in front of me. I was also seeing the little girl who used to bounce across the studio floor, blissfully ignoring her instructor’s directions. I never could have imagined where dance would take her. I certainly never imagined it would help shape so much of who she would become.
Scholarship night
Then came the scholarship ceremony. More than $160,000 in awards were being distributed to roughly seventy graduating students, and Heather and I knew Beth-Rose was receiving something, because the event was only for recipients and their families. We just didn’t know what.
Names were called. Students went up once, twice, three times. Others seemed to have a reserved parking spot near the stage. And still no Beth-Rose. Heather and I sat there waiting, wondering, and doing the thing parents do when they’re trying not to visibly hope too hard.
Then they started calling her name.
Watching her walk across that stage with that smile was one of those moments every parent keeps. Then came the big one: the local Credit Union scholarship. The one we hoped she might receive but weren’t certain about. When her name was announced, the room erupted. People cheered. Heather cried. I did what every emotionally composed father does in that situation. I suddenly found something very interesting happening on the ceiling.
By the end of the evening, Beth-Rose had received more scholarship money than anyone else in her graduating class. Between those awards and university entrance scholarships, she has earned nearly $18,000 toward her education. As proud as I was of the awards themselves, what moved me more was what they represented. Not a single good exam or one successful project. Years of effort. Years of showing up. Years of quietly becoming the kind of person other people choose to believe in.
Who she’s become
One of my favourite moments from the entire weekend involved her brother, Zach. Three years ago, he graduated and received several scholarships of his own. Watching him beam at the ceremony was something I didn’t expect to hit me the way it did. There wasn’t an ounce of competition in him. Only pride. He was genuinely, completely thrilled to watch the world recognize what our family has known for a long time: his little sister is every bit as smart, capable, and determined as he is.
As I watched Beth-Rose cross the stage to receive her diploma, I found myself thinking less about what she had accomplished and more about who she had become. My own reflections on graduation. She’s intelligent. She’s thoughtful. She’s mature beyond her years. Sometimes I suspect that’s made it harder for her to find where she fully fits. She hasn’t found her tribe yet, not completely. But she will. I think university is going to open that door for her.
Because she’s still becoming. And because she possesses something that can’t be taught in a classroom: she keeps moving forward. She keeps growing. She keeps showing up, even when it’s hard.
The number I wasn’t ready to see
So there I was, the morning after graduation, staring at that countdown timer. All the warmth of the weekend behind me, and that cold little number in front of me. And just like that, all the excitement gave way to the quiet realization that the next chapter is already arriving faster than I’m ready for.
I’m excited for her. I’m genuinely, deeply proud of her. But if I’m being completely honest, I’m not ready. Not even close. Maybe that’s the strange contradiction at the heart of parenting. You spend eighteen years preparing your children to leave. Then, when they’re finally ready, you discover you’re the one who still needs a little more time.
If Beth-Rose reads this ten years from now, there’s only one thing I hope she remembers. Not the scholarships. Not the awards. Not the applause.
I hope she remembers that her mother and I always trusted her. We always believed in her. We always knew she was capable of building an amazing life for herself. And we would have supported her no matter what path she chose. Even if she had no path at all.
The recital is over. The costumes will eventually get packed away. The scholarships are wonderful. The graduation is wonderful. The university acceptance is wonderful. But none of those things are why we’re proud.
We’re proud because of the person she’s become. And because we can’t wait to see who she becomes next.
Even if I’d really appreciate a few more days on that countdown timer.
