A breath caught in my throat the moment Antho stepped on that stage, wrapped in black tulle and red velvet, her eyes wide with wonder, her smile lighting up the auditorium before a single note played. Watching her among her friends, all of them beaming in their colorful costumes, reminded me that joy at esta edad no se explica, se siente. It bursts out of little hearts and spills into every twirl, every wave, every applause. That evening, my daughter wasn’t just part of a performance, she was the heartbeat of it.
Behind the curtains and practiced routines, there’s a reality no program announces, months of messy hair, glitter on the floor, and socks gone missing in rehearsals. But what no one really sees, except maybe a mother, is how much these kids grow between steps. From shy glances to bold center-stage poses, they learn how to shine without pushing others into shadow. And I, front row and quietly breathless, clutched my phone like it could capture something bigger than pixels, pride swelling in my chest, and love that had no words.
Children don’t perform for perfection. They dance because it feels like flying, even if only for three minutes under warm lights. Antho, with her striped sleeves and the little red beret, became someone new while still being so unmistakably herself. There was elegance in her every movement, but also a freedom only nine-year-olds seem to remember how to keep. Her eyes searched for me once, just once, and when they found me, I knew she was exactly where she belonged. Not for me, not even for the audience, but for herself.
Days later, the glitter still clings to our living room rug, and I find myself smiling each time I spot a rogue rhinestone on the stairs. The performance may be over, but what it stirred in both of us lingers. She tells everyone about the bouquet she got, how heavy the applause sounded, how the stage felt beneath her shoes. But she doesn’t talk about how brave she was. That’s mine to remember. Mothers carry those silent victories like keepsakes in hidden pockets.
Each parent that night saw a different star. For me, it was Antho, bold and laughing, arms flung wide as if the world was hers to catch. And in a way, maybe it is. The stage might have been small, the lights modest, the chairs squeaky, but the moment was enormous. To witness her in that magic, fully herself, surrounded by her tribe of giggles and glitter, was to understand a kind of happiness that doesn’t need words. Just eyes wide open and a heart that learns to let go a little, every time she soars.
All photographs and content used in this post are my own. Therefore, they have been used under my permission and are my property.
