When Margot and I each had three nonterrible dress options, we headed back to the fitting rooms, where Isabel was waiting. Margot locked eyes with me before we went into our separate stalls. “You have to come out, okay?” she said.

Both of our first picks—the little black dress for Margot and a navy one-shouldered dress for me—received a firm no from Isabel. She said they were too conventional for such “fascinating young women.”

But Margot’s second pick, a glistening metallic gray dress with a halter neckline, a floor-length skirt, and pockets, got Isabel’s approval. “Finally! Thank you, Jesus!” Margot fell to her knees and threw her hands up until Isabel told her to compose herself. Mine got another no.

Margot turned to me and said, “I’m pullin’ for you, champ.”

I returned to the dressing room and put on my third and final option. It was a soft, rosy pink, with a simple scoop neck and a black velvet ribbon that crisscrossed in the front and tied in a bow at the back. The skirt was soft tulle and a little bit poufy, falling just below my knees, leaving my scars uncovered, which obviously ruled it out. But there was something else.

I frowned at my reflection. With the color and the skirt, this dress was way too ballet-esque. Still, I had to show it to Margot and Isabel. I’d promised. I quickly pulled my leggings back on underneath the skirt, making sure they were fully covering my scars, and came out of the dressing room. Isabel’s face lit up, and Margot said, “Niiiice.”

“Lovely,” Isabel cooed. “You move so gracefully in it.”

“Of course she does,” Margot said. “She’s a ballerina.” Isabel lifted her eyebrows, looking at me expectantly.

“I used to do ballet, but I don’t anymore.”

“I love the ballet,” Isabel said. “I go whenever I can. I met a dancer from American Ballet Theatre at a dinner once. She told me that ballet isn’t something you do. It’s something you are. I’ve never done ballet, but that sounds right to me.”

I smiled a little. Part of me wanted the conversation to end. But another part, the stubborn part that had picked out this dress, wanted to grasp on to the notion that ballet was in me somehow, forever, even though I couldn’t do it anymore.

Scars and steel don’t decide if you’re a dancer or not.

But if scars and steel meant you couldn’t do pointe or hold yourself up in a relevé or do a steady pirouette, then that was exactly what they did.