What Is Felt in the Studio

There was a moment in my teaching that has stayed with me for years.

I was teaching an open adult ballet class at Houston Ballet when an older woman walked in. She quietly mentioned that she might put her pointe shoes on, and as class went on, I realized she was not a beginner at all. It was Patricia Wilde, a former principal dancer with New York City Ballet, who was in the studio at the time setting a work on the company.

She took class, did her work, and at the end came up to me and said:

“You have the most beautiful spirit when you teach.”

She didn’t comment on the combinations.
She didn’t speak about the structure of the class.
She noticed something else.

That moment meant more to me than anything she could have said about the material itself.

As teachers, we care deeply about knowledge. We want to be clear, responsible, and accurate in what we give. We want our dancers to work hard, to work intelligently, to take risks, and to pursue excellence. All of that matters.

But there is something else that matters just as much.

How we teach shapes not only what dancers do, but what they experience.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that teaching is not only about delivering information or correcting movement. It is about what is present in the studio—what students feel as they learn, struggle, and grow.

There are still moments when I don’t communicate as clearly as I would like. There are days when I feel frustrated because what I’m trying to say isn’t landing. I don’t do this perfectly.

But that moment stayed with me because it reminded me of something deeper:

It’s not only what we give.
It’s what is present.

Even in settings where faith is not explicitly named, there is something that can be felt—patience, steadiness, attentiveness, and care. For me, that is rooted in something beyond myself.

Not something I manufacture.
Something I allow.

Ballet is hard. Training is demanding. Growth requires effort, risk, and persistence. But if the environment loses its sense of humanity—if joy disappears entirely—we have to pause and ask what we are cultivating.

Because in the end, students may not remember every correction.

But they will remember how it felt to be in the studio.

And that, too, is part of our teaching.