Jennifer Milner on The Importance of Being Seen

Photo Credit: Jennifer Milner

Several years ago, I sat in the offices of Career Transition for Dancers, struggling with the unthinkable – retiring from dance. A man walked in, probably mid-fifties, well dressed, and clearly a former dancer. He sat across from me, nodded politely, and opened his newspaper.

But then he looked back at me – really looked – and folded his paper. “Now, you are much too young to be retiring from dance! What brings you here?”

“An injury,” I replied briefly, unable to say more without crying.

His eyes softened, and compassion flooded his face. “I see,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.” He rested his hand on my knee for a moment in silence, simply looking at me, before heading back into the offices.

A small moment of connection, in a time that was difficult and agonizing. I’ve never forgotten it. To have someone acknowledge not the physical pain, but the emotional pain, unfurled something I hadn’t known was tightly clenched. I felt seen for who I was right there in that moment.

Dancers are viewed over and over every day – by teachers, directors, the audience. I was used to people looking at me, judging me.

But I rarely felt seen.

Many times in my dance career, I was a warm body or a tool for the choreographer or director to use. I knew my value – and how quickly it would plummet if I gained weight, appeared unhappy, or stopped taking class. People in charge were often kind, but at the end of the day, I was a commodity to be used.

As I began battling injuries, I was fairly fortunate: most doctors took the time to listen. I asked around and found good physical therapists who could work with dancers and understood the emotional weights we carry, as well as the physical demands we endure. If you’re a PT, you know that you’re often a surrogate counselor, as dancers pour their hearts out on the table. My PT, in fact, was the one to gently suggest I seek out a counselor for help during that hard time.

Transitioning into my current career of Pilates trainer and movement coach, I kept at the forefront of my work the idea that I needed to truly see every dancer who came to me. I fell in love with dance medicine and the idea of several different professions all dedicated to helping the dancer stay healthy and perform. The idea of working for – and supporting – the dancer, not the school or company or show, is incredibly exciting to me. I get to help humans create art, and there’s nothing better than that.

Marika Molnar told me to treat what you see: sometimes people complain of a knee issue but you see problems at the hip, or someone asks for hamstring stretching when you see the restrictions at the low back. I’m not a licensed medical professional, but I still apply that to my clients.

Every day, I make sure I see my dancers. They may say they want a tough workout, but their body begs for some slow movement love. A dancer might swear he’s fine, but I can see his nervous system in need of  a serious reboot before we start moving. As I work, my dancers float test balloon comments about eating disorders, trouble with parents, fear of directors, and an overall worry about the future. They want to move, but they also need time without people wanting something more from them than a rolldown. I don’t need my dancers to win a Hope award, the Prix, or snag that final promotion, and they feel that lack of pressure.

These days, I see my dancers go from young pre-professionals to soloists in a major company. I see people shine brightly at 12 and burn out and quit by 15. I see teens and adults struggling with the uncertainty of the arts in the pandemic, and dancers re-kindle - or lose - their love of dance during lockdown. And I see doctors and trainers and physical therapists and counselors and coaches all working alongside them, supporting these artists and respecting them as humans, regardless of where they are in their successes.

Dance medicine has grown exponentially since I started with it in 2002, and I feel a fierce, proprietary joy by getting to be a part of my dancers’ journeys. Now, more than ever, these dancers need to be seen. To be known. And to be valued as a human.

Being seen – being truly seen, and acknowledged for who you are – is a gift. To be understood, to be known, and to be met where you are at that moment, is irreplaceable. We, as dance medicine professionals, have the privilege of giving that gift every day. I will not take this for granted, and I walk into every session with my eyes wide open, ready to see.