Tiny droplets of sweat formed beads on my forehead that slowly trickled down my temples and came to a peak beneath my chin. Their salty essence dribbled down onto the studio floor below, dotting the lifeless grey vinyl in a constellation of desperation.

Lighter than air and heavier than rain, I pranced about the room in an elegant yet dizzying display of grandeur. Each bounce and twirl were expertly timed to the upbeat music cheering on in the background. The only accompanying sounds were the soft patters of my feet and the frenzied pounding of my heart against my ribs. Although it was a far cry from the graceful leaps and bounds of ballet, it wasn't quite what you might find on the streets either. It was something in-between.

Sprawled out on their foldable thrones before me were three judges, piercing eyes complimenting their stoic faces. As much as I tried to ignore them, the frail woman at the far-right end kept crossing her sagging arms, the prominent mole clinging to her eyebrow never failing to capture my attention. The king of all burliness rested beside her, more interested in the speck of dust on the inside of his wiry glasses than my performance. That only left Mr. Looks-Too-Young-To-Be-Judging-These-Things, and I’m pretty sure he was using his clipboard to cover his yawns. Occasionally one would look down to scribble something on the papers laid out in front of them, but aside from the scratching of their pens against the paper, all I got from them was cold-shouldered silence.

Hey, remember that time when you were little, and some grown-up dared to ask you what you wanted to be when you got older?

I do.

We all do. We like to think it's one of those defining moments of our childhood, and whatever we say will stick with us forever. The grown-ups will even go as far as to fill all of us little ones with the hope that we can do anything we set our puny, developing minds to. Some of us went with the obvious choices like doctor or firefighter, others settled for engineer or lawyer. I chose to become a dancer like my mother...but a bit less classic, and slightly more pop. The only trouble is that no one tells an eight-year-old aspiring dancer that she will spend every day fighting for a place among thousands of others just like her.

I’ve spent years practicing, scrounging for auditions, failing again and again, but giving up is not part of my vocabulary.

The song ended on a high note, and I struck a pose and held my position while the judges finished jotting down their observations. Chest heaving, I anxiously awaited criticism with the hope that I had done enough to impress them this time. I've auditioned for the chance to be a back-up dancer for dozens of artists and to join professional dance crews. Yet, I always got the same response, "try again next year." I'm already up in my twenties—I don't have many years left to make it in this career, so I made sure that this audition counted.

But was it enough?

Silence engulfed the room.

It felt like an eternity passed before the judges put their pens down and sat back in their seats. The burly man in the center took off his glasses and ran a hand through his graying hair, pursing his crackly chapped lips. Finally, he spoke.

"You're lacking in emotion when you dance," he stated simply, his raspy voice ringing with disappointment and Southern drawl. His beady eyes shifted up towards mine, his chin tilting back as if I were the one insulting him.

"You should come back next year and try to really connect with the music," the woman beside him added, mole waggling in approval. I didn't even hear what the third one had to say. These weren't new comments, and I knew deep down that they were probably right. I was too stressed to even think about any kind of emotional connection to the music I was dancing to. Sometimes a smile can really make it or break it.

And let’s be honest, I demolished this one.

The first judge's chair creaked under his weight and brought me out of my stupor. Sliding his glasses back up over his nose, he gave me a look of sympathy and did something almost no judge ever does: apologize.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you're just not what we're looking for," he murmured gently, almost consoling me like I was his own granddaughter.

Then he hit me with a verbal baseball bat to the face.

"Tara, we need to have a heart to heart," he started slowly, clearly unsure of how to approach the situation. "You've auditioned for us every year for the past decade. I think it's time that you considered that maybe you're just not suited for this type of work. You should go back and reevaluate some things. Figure out what you’re good at. There's something for everyone, and there's bound to be something out there for you, too. But, quite frankly, dancing is not it,” the man explained, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “You just can't force talent."

Thanks, random old guy whose name I haven't bothered to learn in a decade.

Now what am I going to do?