Breaking Pointe | Rough Draft

Seven

The soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead mixed with the quiet murmur of students settling into their seats. I slipped into my usual spot in the back row, the cold plastic chair pressing into my back as I set my notebook on the desk. The faded whiteboard at the front of the room had been wiped clean, awaiting today's lesson, while the faint smell of chemicals from the lab lingered in the air.

Professor Jennings entered the room, her heavy boots clacking against the tile floor. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with an energy that always felt just on the verge of exploding. Her round glasses rested atop her rosy cheeks her grey hair in tight curls at her ears. She adjusted her glasses, glanced at the clock, and began scribbling on the board without a word.

The words Cellular Respiration appeared in big, looping letters.

"Alright, let's talk about the basics of energy," she began, turning to face the class. "Specifically, how your body uses it to survive. Cellular respiration. We all learned the basics in high school—glucose goes in, energy comes out—but there's more to it than that. You've heard the phrase 'fight or flight,' right?"

Several students nodded. I tapped my pen nervously against the edge of my notebook, trying to focus on the lecture instead of the thoughts racing through my head.

Professor Jennings launched into her explanation. "Your body's ability to survive stress comes down to energy—how efficiently it's used, how well it's stored, and how much you can produce when you need it most. When you're pushed to the edge, when you're in survival mode, your cells switch to anaerobic respiration. Less efficient, but quicker. You don't have time for finesse; it's all about immediate action. Your body burns through its reserves, throwing everything it has at the problem."

I sat up straighter, my pen stilling as her words hit a little too close to home. Immediate action. Less efficient but quicker. It felt like a cruel metaphor for my life, especially lately.

Professor Jennings continued, her voice rising with enthusiasm. "But the thing is, when your body stays in that mode too long, it starts to break down. You're burning fuel you can't replace. Your muscles tire, your brain gets foggy, and you start losing control of your system. Sound familiar?"

The class chuckled softly, and I felt a flicker of recognition. My ballet routines. The endless hours of rehearsal. The days I barely ate. I'd been running on empty for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe.

"Now, the body's a remarkable machine. When it has time, it can recover, return to aerobic respiration, where it uses oxygen efficiently, creating energy in a sustainable way. But you've got to give it time. And rest." She gave the class a knowing look. "Most of you probably aren't getting enough of that, either."

I scribbled the words anaerobic and aerobic in my notebook, though I already knew them by heart. But it was easier to write than to confront the truth of what she was saying.

"As a dancer, you've got to understand this better than anyone, Amelia," Professor Jennings said suddenly, her gaze locking onto me from across the room. My heart skipped a beat, heat creeping up my neck.

I swallowed hard, nodding stiffly.

"Your body's limits are there for a reason. Push past them, and you're bound to crash."

"You've got to ask yourself," she continued, scanning the room, "what are you fighting for? And at what cost?"

My grip tightened around my pen.

Jennings turned back to the board, drawing diagrams of mitochondria and ATP production as the class scribbled notes. But I barely noticed. My thoughts were swirling too fast. I was that cell stuck in anaerobic mode, burning through everything I had just to survive, and it was breaking me down piece by piece.