Dance has been my life, even since I first started ballet at the tender age of four years old. I was always told that I would be a prima ballerina, that the world would fall at the feet of my talent. My soul was in my feet, in the graceful sway of my arms, in my careful balance.

That was before the crash.

I was driving home from a late night at the studio working on my latest dance when I got a phone call. My audition for the New York Ballet had been carefully reviewed, and I would be allowed in.

I will never know whether my joy distracted me from the road, or if it was completely out of my control, but as soon as I flipped my phone shut, a drunk driver slammed into my car. My right arm was completely mangled in the crash, and after four hours of trying to save it, the doctors were forced to amputate.

I was lucky to have amassed a bit of money during my career as a dancer so far. Rehab was long and arduous. Learning to do little things, like brush my teeth with my left hand was very difficult for me. My parents were very supportive, but I still lamented the fact that my passion had led me to leave an isolated lifestyle, with very few close friends. I needed shoulders to lean on, and capable hands to hold me up.

All of this I took with the same single-mindedness that I had always used in my dance. It was when I attempted to dance once more that my heart truly broke. The imbalance of weight that my torso had, combined with the fact that I couldn’t do any of the arm movements with one arm rendered what had once been my art, my passion, and my soul into shambling, uncertain movements.

I cried for three days, locked in my room, refusing to see anyone.

On the morning of the fourth day, I looked down from my apartment, and saw an amazing man. He was clearly blind, as he had the signature sunglasses, and a dog harnessed up for Seeing Eye work. An easel and paint, all organized to the letter, stood before him. He was painting.

Spellbound, I found myself getting dressed, and going to go speak to the man.

“Have you always been blind?” I asked.

The man smiled a bitter smile. “I’m afraid not. Diabetes took my sight from me. But it could never take my art.”

I bought one of the man’s paintings. It was beautiful, in its own way. It was a desert scene, only with colors blending together to the point where you could barely tell where one began and the other ended.

To this day I am profoundly grateful to that man, for teaching me not to give up.

Instead of abandoning what had defined me for so long, I fought for it, harder than I had ever fought for anything in my life. I carried a bag of weights over what was left of my shoulder, trying to correct the balance of my torso. I strengthened my remaining arm even more than I had for just everyday tasks with one arm.

I danced, with one arm, as much as I could. My ballet was not what it once had been, but in its own way, it was better. I fought so hard, for so long, that the dance transformed me. I was no longer the soft ballerina of unimaginable talent I once had been. Now, I am a hardened a bit, and I will never give up.

A year after meeting the man in front of my apartment, to the day, I gave a performance for my family, and the friends I had amassed over the past year’s battle. And it was beautiful.

Please review! I will be eternally grateful to you, and so will my muse! If you want, in a review, you can submit a one-word writing prompt, and I might write something out of it for you!