I Miss That Version of Me

2 min

Last Saturday, my mom and I went on a little date—just the two of us.

We started the evening with a delicious culinary experience at Kabawa, a new gem of a restaurant from Chef Paul Carmichael and Momofuku. Full and happy, we caught the train to the Joyce Theatre to see one of her all-time favorite dance companies: Parsons Dance.

They perform there every year, and we’ve gone before. But this time, something hit differently.

As I watched the dancers leap, spin, and hold impossible stillness in motion, I felt a yearning in my spirit. Their joyful, fast-paced, physically rigorous movements—I knew them, deep in my bones. And more importantly, I knew what it takes to get on that stage.

Because I used to be on a stage too.

Growing up, dance wasn’t just an extracurricular—it was a language, a discipline, a sanctuary. There were years when I spent more time in studios than anywhere else. I trained. I performed. I knew the sensation of breath syncing with movement, of saying something without words.

And on Saturday night, in that dim theater beside my mom, I remembered:
I miss that version of me.

Not because she was thinner. Not because she was more toned.

I miss her because of how she felt—euphoric, free, and magical. That version of me experienced something close to transcendence. Everything may not have been right in the world, but on stage, everything inside me aligned.

Watching those dancers, I realized something:
I wasn’t just a spectator of their performance. I had become a spectator in my own memory, watching an old version of myself from the sidelines.

And that moment of recognition didn’t bring sadness. It brought a new understanding.

When we miss a version of ourselves, it’s not just nostalgia. It’s a signal. A sign that something we once felt—some energy, some joy, some way of being—is ready to return.

We don’t always need to go back to old routines or roles.
But we can listen to the parts of us that are calling for reawakening.

That dancer in me—the one who knew her body, who trusted the rhythm, who felt joy in movement—she’s still here.

She’s not asking to be mourned.
She’s asking to be remembered.
To be welcomed back, in a new way.

So here’s what I’m asking you:
What part of you is ready to come back to life?
And what’s one small way you can let that part of you move again—today?

Maybe it’s not the stage anymore. But the feeling? The presence? The joy? That’s still within reach.

And maybe the most loving thing we can do is stop spectating—and start participating again, in our own joy, energy, and becoming.

Sign up for our curated weekly Kume House Musings newsletter with stories and inspiration on life, love, well-being, and much more delivered right to your inbox.