Picture this: You’re a fresh-faced 19-year-old, laser-focused on joining a prestigious dance company. Every class, workshop, and audition over the past few years has been a carefully calculated step towards catching the eye of the renowned choreographer. Then, one day, after an intensive two-week workshop, the choreographer approaches you. He doesn’t just offer you a spot in his company; he announces that your debut performance will be a duet with him during the New York City season.
This was the exhilarating start to my professional journey. The choreographer and dancer I admired most in the world had personally invited me to share the stage with him in an intimate duet. My nascent career instantly blossomed into a dream come true, a taste of paradise reserved for miracles and first loves. In my youthful idealism, I envisioned us dancing that duet together indefinitely.
Now, shift the scene: Six months later, you’re on tour, back in your childhood home, relaxing on the couch before heading to the theater in your hometown. The phone rings. It’s the choreographer, delivering devastating news. His back has given out, and he’s unable to perform the duet that evening. But the blow doesn’t end there. He continues, explaining that even after his recovery, he wants another dancer in the company—someone coincidentally five inches shorter and 30 pounds lighter than you—to permanently take over your part in the duet.
And so began the most embarrassingly immature and resentful chapter of my life, a period defined by an all-consuming jealousy that would haunt me for the next five years.
I joined the company alongside another dancer, whom I’ll call Bernadette. As the two newest members, Bernadette and I were assigned to be roommates while on tour. She was quickly integrated into much of the company’s repertoire, filling the void left by a recent departure. My situation was different; I was an additional member, and initially, my primary role was performing the duet. I vividly remember countless hours in our hotel room, watching Bernadette intensely study choreography videos, rewinding and replaying music on her Walkman, silently mouthing steps while scribbling notes. She had a mountain of dances to learn. While I envied her activity then, the duet with the choreographer remained my prized possession, my golden ticket.
Bernadette and I were strikingly different dancers. She was a dynamic force—fast, fierce, and captivating. She reminded me of a Thompson’s gazelle, those small, graceful antelopes that can outpace cheetahs in a heartbeat. She could traverse the studio from one corner to another in an instant, her movements barely disturbing the air. She seemed weightless, executing phrases with an ethereal lightness, barely touching the ground. Petite yet perfectly proportioned, she possessed a model’s physique—long, elegant arms, defined abs, a flawlessly shaped bottom, and legs that seemed made for miniskirts.
I too was strong, but my physique was more athletic than model-esque. I was taller and heavier than Bernadette, naturally possessing a more muscular and deliberate quality in my movements. We weren’t obvious substitutes for each other, except in this specific instance where the choreographer needed a significantly lighter partner.
When the choreographer delivered the news about the casting change, he attempted to reassure me that his back, not my physique, was the issue. I responded with dismissive “uh-huh’s,” masking the tidal wave of tears threatening to erupt. Despite his words, I convinced myself that his back problem was merely a convenient excuse to avoid dancing the duet with me. I spiraled into insecurity, imagining myself as a burdensome partner to lift, the kind male dancers secretly dreaded, commiserating and massaging their aching muscles after rehearsals. Pre-existing doubts about my femininity as a dancer, fears that the choreographer wouldn’t know how to utilize my strengths, or would realize I was too inexperienced for the professional stage, now amplified to a deafening roar in my mind. I felt rejected and clumsy. Where Bernadette was a gazelle, charming and eager to take center stage, I felt like a rhinoceros being relegated to the sidelines. The question echoed in my mind: Why Her?
I never voiced my jealousy to anyone in the company. As the newest member, I was terrified of appearing incapable of handling the harsh realities of a professional dance career. I consciously projected an image of indifference to casting decisions. When Bernadette’s time to perform the role arrived, I plastered on a smile and offered an enthusiastic thumbs up. Inside, resentment festered.
Jealousy is an incredibly complex and potentially destructive emotion. It’s a natural human response, as fundamental and reflexive as fear, joy, or sadness. No one is immune to its sting. However, jealousy’s true insidious nature lies in its ability to disguise itself as inexplicable hatred, uncontrollable bitterness, or even deep depression. Admitting jealousy requires acknowledging our insecurities, our need for reassurance, our vulnerability beneath a facade of strength. To navigate jealousy constructively, we must recognize that the pain stems from our own fears of inadequacy. Yet, it’s often easier to project blame onto someone else, making them the scapegoat for our inner turmoil. This is when jealousy can tempt even the most compassionate individuals to engage in petty and destructive behaviors.
The jealousy I harbored towards Bernadette festered internally, manifesting as petty acts of unkindness. I morphed into the company gossip, seizing any trivial detail about her as an opportunity to gather an audience for my commentary. Deep down, I knew it was wrong, but the allure of attention, of having company members hanging on my every word, was intoxicating. “If she could have my part,” I reasoned, “then I could have more friends.” I failed to recognize that these were superficial connections, built on negativity rather than genuine camaraderie. Bernadette, of course, was aware of my subtle sabotage and retaliated with sharp remarks, icy glances, or blatant indifference. Throughout our time in the company, our notorious rivalry became a running joke amongst the other dancers. But beneath the surface humor, Bernadette and I were genuinely hurting each other, locked in a silent battle fueled by my unspoken question: why her?
The cycle finally broke on a hill in Athens, Greece. It was the night of Bernadette’s farewell performance with the company. We were at a late-night meal at an outdoor restaurant, overlooking the illuminated ancient ruins of the city. Much of the evening is hazy due to excessive ouzo, but one memory remains crystal clear: hugging Bernadette in a secluded corner of the restaurant, away from the group. In a moment of farewell, we found ourselves face to face, and a conciliatory embrace felt necessary. As I held her, I felt her body begin to shake with uncontrollable sobs. I’m sure she could feel my own body mirroring hers as I began to release the pent-up pain we had inflicted on each other for five long years. The moment she was chosen to replace me in the duet had been a poisoned arrow straight to my heart, an injury that remained unhealed by subsequent successes—not by featured roles, critical acclaim, applause, or the choreographer’s praise received over the years. The venom was only finally extracted in the gentle Athenian breeze, as I confessed to Bernadette, my voice thick with tears, “I was jealous.”
Rosalynde LeBlanc, former dancer with various New York companies.
Illustration by Clare Mallison
