I hook up my phone to the stereo system and roll my head and ankles out in a light stretch as I find “Jazz Fling,” the piece of music we’ve chosen. I play the first ten seconds to jog my memory—Dun dun dun… dun-dun-dun dun dun dun—and experiment with movement on the floor. I could start with this pose, or that one. There could be a flashy kick, or a spin, or a flick of my wrists. I watch myself carefully in the mirror as I string together a sequence of dance, and try it out to the beat of the music. It’s good. But what if I squeeze in a jump series before the first tumbling pass? I rework the choreography three different ways before I settle on a version I like. I try it out—and this time, I’m pleased.

The next section of the melody soars, and I make a mental note to reserve that for Hallie’s first tumbling pass, the impressive double Arabian. I listen as the music unfurls and try to imagine what could come next. The song has flaring trumpets and a sassy beat. You don’t just dance to this music—you strut. I pop my hip, flick my fingers, shimmy my shoulders. I let myself get lost in the song, leaping and pirouetting with abandon. It’s been close to a decade since I’ve allowed myself to indulge in this way, and I can practically feel my heart glowing with joy.

That is, until I catch sight of the mirror across the floor, reflecting stiff joints that don’t bend the way I envision. It’s cringeworthy. I hear echoes of Dimitri’s criticisms: the split in my leap isn’t crisp enough; my Shushunova doesn’t get enough height; the routine would really look better if my thighs were thinner. I thought I was done mourning the loss of my ability years ago, but fresh grief springs up again. It’s overwhelmingly sad to know that no matter how hard I train, I can never regain the body I once took for granted.

I take a break, letting the music play out as I take an ice-cold slurp from the water fountain. Then I tighten my ponytail, take a deep breath, and queue up the beginning of “Jazz Fling” again.