Growing up, I spent most weeknights in a dance studio, which had its own share of collective rituals, but the feeling of adrenaline and excitement experienced right before stepping on stage for a competitive team performance is unrivaled. A feeling of pure camaraderie. Each individual; an active and important participant; all for one, one for all.

My most recent memory of this event was my junior year of college, as captain of my school’s dance team, standing on the right side of the bandshell in Daytona Beach Florida for the National Dance Alliance competition. 18 years of dance experience behind me, all the hard work, late nights and early mornings training for this moment; yet none of that moment was about me. Standing in a circle, arms interlocked and hands clasped to keep our bodies physically planted on the ground as our combined energy was almost too much to contain, we were instantly reminded of our connection. Looking around the circle, meeting eyes with each young woman; some I had shared almost every meal with over the three years leading up to this point. Girls I complained to about school work; whispered to about boys on the 6th floor, and laughed with endlessly while adventuring around campus finding unique ways to entertain ourselves. Some girls I had barely known; girls with different tastes in music, girls who came from stable homes, girls who preferred tea to tequila, girls who dreamt of having families when they graduated. A variety of beautiful young women, connected through dance. 

We were reminded of our shared hatred of running laps around the convocation center at 7am in the middle of winter and our shared love for off-the-clock improv while we waited for evening practices to start. We were bonded through our dehumanizing freshman initiation that we all loathed at the time but craved to cast on the next batch of unsuspecting dancers. Our beer-less tailgates before football game performances and one-dollar hotdogs before basketball game half-time shows. Together, we had supported the male-dominated, income-driving sports from the sidelines. Now it was our turn. None of our classmates made the trip to Florida and very few family members would be in the crowd cheering us on, but we didn’t need anyone to make us feel special, because we had each other. With all our differences, we built a family, an unlikely but unrelenting bond.

Seeing the eager, almost deliriously happy but nervous expressions on the faces of these girls that had transformed into nationally ranked performers was awe-inspiring. Older girls took turns shouting encouraging phrases and routine reminders. Inside jokes from our long practices were tossed about the circle, every word falling into the cauldron between our lived-in jazz shoes with heat rising from our growing jitters and a need to execute our long-practiced movements. I don’t remember the verbatim of what I said that day. It’s often harder to remember the specifics of impassioned words, versus those practiced. This was a stream of barely-consciousness. I’m sure it started with some mnemonic designed to calm the nerves and remind us that we knew exactly what we were doing; we were prepared. I’m sure it was spoken with vigor. And I’m positive that it ended with a message of love. I love you all more in this moment than I can understand. That’s the thing with rituals. They’re not just solemn; they’re deeply personal. They connect you at the core, at the unknown, the un-controlled. 

That backstage ceremony was bigger than the performance. We did well, but the routine was quick and happening, with little time to take it all in. It was the exhale. The release of the amassed and perfected activities that brought us where we were.

The chanting ritual before the performance was hunger. It was the recognition of our shared connection, our respect for each other and dreams for each other. We wanted everyone to succeed and to feel transcendent.

I’m realizing more as I grow, and particularly during this pandemic, how much this once-annual collective ritual shaped who I am. I’m not particularly extroverted and, in fact, have guiltily enjoyed some of the pleasures of not having to attend things I otherwise would have, but I yearn for the deep connection that is only felt through shared, impassioned goals. I look forward to the days when my adult softball team will rejoin to fight together for the summer-league championship and I hope that we’ll be able to sit around the decorated wooden table at my mom’s house this fall for our annual Thanksgiving binge. 

But for now, I am at a loss for words each night on the steps of my rented Brooklyn brownstone at 7pm, breathing it all in. A small boy banging pots and pans to my right, claps and whistles and purposeful panic buttons to set off car alarms. Shouts from windows across the street and masked bikers giddily slapping their thighs. 

Crawling back into my apartment minutes later with wet eyes and a heavy chest, I feel so grateful that New York City has embraced a collective ritual of honoring our heroes. And until we can celebrate for them and with them, we will continue to hold our nightly ritual, feeling camaraderie and connection and inspiration.