Just read a piece on Slate titled, “Ballet at 70,” where the author shares her journey of starting ballet in her 60s. It hit me right in the feels—and got me thinking hard about aging, art, and the stories we tell ourselves about what’s possible.
For so long, ballet has been painted as a young person’s game—rigorous, unforgiving, reserved for those who start at five and retire by thirty. But here’s this incredible voice saying, “No, wait—this is for me, too.” And she wasn’t prepared for what it would do to her. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
Can we just pause and appreciate how radical that is?
Starting ballet later in life isn’t about catching up or trying to be the next principal dancer at the Royal Ballet. It’s about rediscovering your body as an instrument of expression, not just function. It’s about muscle memory, grace, and discipline meeting life experience, patience, and a renewed sense of self.
The author talks about things she never expected—the quiet power in holding a perfect arabesque, the meditative focus required at the barre, the sheer joy of moving in sync with music. Ballet, for her, became less about performance and more about presence.
And can we talk about the courage it takes to walk into a ballet studio for the first time at 60+? Surrounded by mirrors and maybe even younger dancers, facing every insecurity and physical limitation head-on? That’s not just bravery—that’s a revolution in self-worth.
This isn’t just a story about ballet. It’s a story about rewriting the narrative of aging. It’s proof that our passions don’t retire when we do. That it’s never, ever too late to try something beautiful, difficult, and transformative.
So here’s to the late starters. The ones who dance, paint, sing, or write later in life. You’re not just learning a skill—you’re reclaiming a part of yourself you might not have known was still there.
If this piece teaches us anything, it’s that the body is capable of wonder at any age. And maybe, just maybe, the most powerful performances aren’t on the world’s stages—but in quiet studios, where someone in their seventh decade is discovering tendus, and themselves, for the very first time.
Keep dancing, no matter the number. The music’s just getting started.
