That afternoon, I had my first session with a therapist. Not a physical therapist, an actual therapist, like Derek and Daisy had been seeing.
Her name was Dr. Sarah Chen, and her office was warm and comfortable, filled with plants and soft lighting.
"So, Rosalie," she began after we'd settled in the smell of lavender lingering in the air. "What brings you here today?"
I took a breath. "I had a hip replacement at seventeen. It ended my ballet career. And I've been pretending I'm fine with it for two years."
"But you're not fine with it."
"No. I'm angry, sad, and lost. And I don't know who I am without dance." The words came faster now, two years of bottled-up emotions spilling out. "I've been trying to be someone else. Someone normal. Someone who can just move on, pick a major, and have a regular life. But I can't. Because dancing was everything to me, and now it's gone, and I don't know how to fill that space."
Dr. Chen listened without judgment, occasionally asking clarifying questions but mostly letting me talk.
"You mentioned trying to be 'normal,'" she said when I finally paused. "What does normal mean to you?"
"I don't know. Going to parties. Dating. Having friends whoaren't dancers. Doing things that don't revolve around barre and rehearsals and performances."
"And how's that working for you?"
I laughed bitterly. "It's not. I hate parties. I'm terrible at casual friendships. And dating has been a disaster until..." I trailed off.
"Until?"
"Until Derek. My boyfriend." Just saying it out loud felt good. "He's a soccer player. He had a major injury that almost ended his career, too. He understands what it's like to lose something you built your whole identity around."
"It sounds like you've found someone who really gets you."
"He does. And watching him work through his recovery has made me realize I've been doing mine all wrong. I've been trying to replace dance instead of integrating it into a new version of my life."
"That's a significant insight," Dr. Chen said. "Tell me more about that."
We talked for the full hour, and by the end, I felt lighter than I had in two years. Dr. Chen gave me homework: write a letter to my younger self, the one who'd dreamed of being a professional dancer. Tell her everything I wished someone had told me.
That night, sitting cross-legged on my bed with Yudi the reindeer beside me, I started writing:
Dear Rosie,
Right now, you think your whole world is ending. Your hip hurts constantly. The doctors are using scary words like "replacement" and "career-ending." You're scared and angry, and you feel betrayed by the body that's always been so reliable.
I wish I could tell you it's going to be okay. Butthe truth is, it's going to be really hard for a while. You're going to lose something you love. You're going to have to completely reimagine your future.
But here's what I know now that I wish you knew then: You are not just a dancer. You're strong, creative, and resilient. The skills you learned at the barre: discipline, precision, the ability to push through pain, those don't disappear just because you can't perform anymore.
You're going to find new ways to move. New ways to create. New ways to share your love of dance with others. It won't look like what you planned, but it might be even better.
And Rosie? You're going to fall in love. With a boy who understands loss, fear, and the struggle to rebuild. A boy who sees you not as damaged or broken, but as whole and beautiful and enough.
You're going to be okay. Better than okay. You're going to be you, a new version, maybe, but still you.
Love,
Future Rosalie
By the time I finished, tears were streaming down my face. But they were healing tears. Release tears.
My phone buzzed.
Derek
