Cultivating Care: Why Dancer Mental Health Matters

Imagery dancer Rachel Furst behind the scenes during SKETCH 4. Photo by Scot Goodman, 2014.

[ Image description: a female dancer stands with her hands on her hips and head down in a moment of intense, quiet contemplation. ]

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and we’re diving deeper into mental health for dancers. As we explored in last month’s post about body image expectations in ballet, the physical and mental aspects of being a dancer are truly inseparable. The difference is that one aspect is highly visible, while the other remains under the surface. For dancers, tending to our mental health should carry equal importance as our physical training, and our individual mindsets are deeply tied to workplace expectations and the dance field’s overarching culture. So let’s explore the origins of dancer mental health issues and some pathways to move forward together into a more caring future.

As dancers we’re often trained with a “mind over matter” approach that simultaneously values our mental strength over our physical limitations while also denying the existence of psychological factors or mental illness. “Mind over matter” tells us that when we are sick, angry, sad, or just plain exhausted, that we “use it” to dance better. I’ve experienced this very dynamic and can say that, yes, I’ve done some extraordinary dancing under acute or ongoing mental strain, but the aftermath still leaves a bitter taste, no matter how outstanding the performance. After one critically acclaimed performance in a demanding lead role, I sat in the dressing room shower and sobbed until my chest ached and my tears washed down the drain. I had bruises for weeks from pounding my anguish through my body, and the psychological implications of an abusive rehearsal process lingered far longer. It’s still difficult for me to take pride in or receive compliments about that standout role, and as much as I wish it was something I could feel proud of, it remains painful to recall.

Unfortunately, my experience is not unique. Any high level performer will tell you about dancing with injuries and illness, dancing after personal trauma and loss, and dancing through private pain and turmoil that runs deeper than muscle, bone, and tendon. For many of us, dance is a way of processing pain, and at best can be a form of healing. Sadly, it’s not often we get the chance to heal through dance, because at the end of the day, “mind over matter” prevails. I sometimes wonder what our art form and community culture might look like if we shifted our ethos to center the mental health and resiliency of dancers just as much as we fixate on the beauty and power of our bodies.

Dancers are experts at masking physical pain, and sadly we are also extremely adept at disguising mental anguish. It’s no coincidence that many of the mental illnesses prevalent among dancers are closely tied to our bodies: eating disorders and body dysmorphia, among others. We’re perfectionists by nature, hyperaware and hypercritical of our perceived mistakes and shortcomings, and these qualities that often attract dancers to ballet can also predispose us to psychiatric conditions such as anxiety, depression, and compulsive disorders. If we’re not mindful of our mental hygiene, the qualities that make dancers so mentally strong can end up being the very things that destroy us and our love for the art. Dancers’ combination of immense physical and mental strength is rare and admirable, and it’s imperative that we keep our focus on using these forces for good rather than pushing them to a place where they cause harm to ourselves and others.

Because our culture fixates so heavily on physical appearance, underlying mental illness can be exacerbated by a response to physical symptoms alone. A dancer who has gained weight due to depression may not be helped by a rigorous new diet and exercise routine; in fact, those measures run the risk of spiraling into disordered eating and compulsive exercising if the underlying concern is left unaddressed. Conversely, how many dancers can attest to going through periods of looking physically fit while falling apart inside? I certainly can. The trouble is, getting dancers to admit we’re struggling can be the hardest part; we’re under extreme pressure to persist and our careers and livelihoods can be at risk at the first sign of weakness, particularly mental “weakness” that doesn’t have the same kind of acute onset and tangible markers of progress as physical injury and recovery. And in many cases, these troubling dynamics can become heightened in the context of workplace expectations and culture.

Dance culture--in ballet companies particularly--has a history of perpetuating physical, verbal, and psychological abuse in overt and implicit ways. From body shaming and gaslighting to snide remarks, social stigmatization, and authoritarian dynamics in training and professional settings, ballet culture doesn’t currently value care nearly as much as it should. The thing is, the quality of our work is a direct reflection of the qualities present in the workplace culture, and an unhealthy workplace will always produce work that falls short of its full potential. Dancers who are cared for will flourish much more than dancers who are abused and mistreated. This seems like a no-brainer, but somehow it’s still largely missing. So how do we navigate this minefield of interconnected suffering and emerge stronger together?

For me, the answer to this question begins with cultivating a culture of care. This means shifting from a results-focused, performance-driven ethos that fixates on physical product to a more humanistic, process-oriented approach. We as dancers know that dance as product is only a tiny portion of the immensely complex process of learning and creating--the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. Likewise, a dancer’s physical state is just a small manifestation of the complex human being underneath. Cultivating care for the whole dancer--physical and mental--requires a shift in mindset, a reordering of priorities, and a reallocation of resources across the field. 

For large institutions, new resources could be deployed to care for dancers in a more holistic way. This could mean hiring a staff psychologist to join the roster of physical therapists, massage therapists, and other practitioners brought on to attend to the needs of dancers’ bodies. It could mean changing dancer assessment parameters and procedures to consider their broader needs and inner lives. And in the studio, it could mean contracting an intimacy director to facilitate communication between dancers and choreographers working on projects containing sensitive subject matter or highly charged interactions.

While these resources are vital for the institutions that can afford them, a culture of care doesn’t have to be limited by budget. For smaller scale project-based work, it could mean crafting collective community agreements, instituting daily check-ins and planned debrief points throughout the process, and implementing an open door policy for honest feedback and ongoing conversation. It also means caring for one another--dancer to dancer--by being mindful of how we greet our colleagues, take corrections and make adjustments, listen closely to understand and arrive at consensus, and thank one another after a long rehearsal day.

So what does all this mean today? The pandemic has created a deep rupture in our industry, and (to varying degrees) we are beginning to support one another in new ways as we grapple collectively with the results of prolonged isolation, anxiety, and loss. The difference here is that we’re all suffering together, whereas typically a dancer is alone in navigating injury or mental illness, which are nearly always closely bound together. For those of us who have seen a shift toward care and communication around mental health during the pandemic, how can we hold on to that ethos as we return to work? How can we build our working and dancing relationships with that same vulnerability and openness to empathize and care for one another? How might our work environments, creative processes, and artistic products change as a result?

Part of Imagery’s ethos is seeing the dancer as more than just a body. We value the full artist for all that makes them unique in mind, body, and spirit. I’m grateful to have found a caring and supportive work environment in the vast majority of Imagery’s projects, and I’m even more grateful to have formed lasting, supportive bonds with many of my Imagery colleagues as a result. My hope is that we can continue to learn and grow together as artists by making a collective shift toward a culture of care.

As always, please connect with us! Share this post, leave a comment, or get in touch: admin@asimagery.org.

For resources and a comprehensive guide to mental health for dancers, please visit Minding the Gap and Okay, Let’s Unpack This.