Andrea Diaz
Ethical Culture Fieldston School
Prep for Prep
Clifton, New Jersey
I used to believe the only place I could truly be seen was on stage under a spotlight, facing a crowd, with every eye fixed on me. Since I was a kid, dance was my language. I would dream of performing in front of thousands, every movement choreographed, rehearsed, and perfected. On stage, everything mattered: the angles, the energy, the emotion. The stage became my sanctuary, the one place where I felt free, expressive, and understood.
So when I quit dancing, I thought I lost all of that. I believed I had walked away from the only space where I could ever matter. Without a stage, who am I?
Coming into the SDXCO Massachusetts program this summer, I didn’t expect much. Still, I counted down the days, rewatched highlight reels, refreshed the website, and imagined waking up in my dorm, heading to class with a notebook and a sense of purpose. That simple, structured routine was all I thought I needed to leave the program satisfied. I was ready to quietly blend in and get what I came for.
But what I didn’t predict were the moments in between.
I didn’t expect the laughter that left me breathless, or the warmth of being seen by people who didn’t know me but somehow understood me. I didn’t expect the SLAs who looked beyond my surface, or the friends who made space for my weirdness without question. And I definitely didn’t expect to feel so at home in a place I’d never been before.
Still, one moment stands out not because it was big or dramatic, but because it was so small, so quiet, and yet it changed something in me.
At home, I’ve always been told I’m too loud, too talkative. English isn’t my first language, and I often mispronounce things. People love to correct me, sometimes kindly, sometimes not. I laugh it off, but the sting always lingers.
One evening after class, I was drained. My self-confidence had taken a hit for no particular reason. I walked down to dinner in my Hello Kitty pajamas, ready to eat quickly and disappear. But I ran into a classmate, and we ended up talking. I wasn’t in the mood, but I stayed. We chatted, we laughed, and just before parting ways, they turned to me and said:
“Thank you for always being happy. I love your smile. I really appreciate it.”
Just like that. No stage. No spotlight. No performance.
And just like that, the joy I thought I’d left on stage found its way back to me.
No one had ever told me that before, not about my smile, or the way I carry joy, or the sound of my voice. That small comment cracked something open. It healed a part of me I didn’t know was still hurting something buried beneath years of silence and self-doubt.
I had no idea how much I wanted to hear that.
Maybe it was just a passing comment to them. But to me, it meant a lot more. It was proof that I didn’t need to be on stage or in front of an audience to matter. Maybe I had never needed those things to begin with.
This summer reminded me that being seen isn’t always about being center stage. Sometimes, it’s a late-night laugh in the dorms. Sometimes, it’s the quiet trust of your roommate who accepts your tangled thoughts and messy bed. Sometimes, it’s the courage to speak up, even when your voice shakes.
I came to SDXCO for a few college credits.
I left with something far greater: the realization that I don’t have to earn belonging through perfection.
I belong just as I am.
