Price of Passion

My weekly schedule was rigorous. I was dancing upwards of 14 hours a week: ballet, contemporary ballet, acro, and gymnastics. And this was besides the supplementary work in pilates and cardio. At the same time, I was a conscientious goody-goody in school who couldn’t hand in a paper late — so my schedule forced me to be disciplined and use every moment.

In my nonexistent spare time, I taught students, frum neighborhood girls who wanted to “do ballet.” At first, it was just a cousin’s kid and her friends, but word spread quickly, and I was soon inundated with girls.

Teaching at that time was more of a hobby than anything else. I charged $4 per girl, and enjoyed teaching fun moves and putting on cute performances.

But I couldn’t let this new enterprise interrupt my practicing schedule. Dancing is the art of physical stamina, and it requires constant maintenance. Even a week’s break is noticeable. You can’t execute a double pirouette with the same precision after a few days off.

The intensity took a physical toll. Dance is genuinely painful and can damage your body. I visited physical therapists countless times throughout my training, and my back and wrist are still not what they used to be.

I remember asking myself so many times, “Why am I doing this? What’s the point?” But I couldn‘t stop.

And there were other challenges. My instructors expected me to “go pro,” to become a professional dancer. That was never my plan. But I questioned my path. Why did I have this “amazing” talent for something that seemed incompatible with the life I wanted to lead? It felt like Hashem had given me something that I needed, yet couldn’t use. Dancing was who I was, but as a frum Jewish girl, what could I possibly do with it?

No Goodbye

Twelfth grade. Seminary was looming. And I couldn’t tell my dance instructors.

They wanted me to become a professional dancer. My year off in seminary would be devastating for them.

I could almost hear the disappointed comments: “Tehila, how could you waste this opportunity? How could you throw away everything we’ve given you?”

Because the professional dance world doesn’t accommodate breaks. Missing a single class due to family obligations or school commitments sets you back. A full year away? That would be career-ending.

But I also understood something deeper: I had a neshamah, I had emunah, and I had a calling I didn’t yet comprehend, but trusted Hashem would reveal.

I soon discovered that — a 30-second trek from my dorm room in seminary — the campus boasted a gorgeous theater. Inside, there was a complete dance studio with professionally sprung floors, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, ballet barres, and even gymnastics mats!

He knew what I needed.

Every week, I went to the theater with a group of friends. They would work out, and I would dance. And on Fridays, I taught girls some basic dancing moves. I made peace with the fact that I couldn’t possibly soak up all that seminary had to offer and maintain the top-notch caliber of my dancing. So I danced when I could — and eagerly embraced living in Eretz Yisrael with a dorm full of growing, like-minded friends.

From the Basement

“What are you doing these days, Tehila?”

It was a good question.

After seminary I took a complete break from dance instruction. I worked at a Jewish Sunday school, exploring kiruv work. And I was soon going to college for my business degree. After all, I needed to be practical, and dancing wasn’t going to put bread on my future table.

But my old dance teacher wanted to know how I was using my talent.

“What about the dancing?” she pressed. It was a conversation filled with a lot of shrugs (mine) and questions (hers).

But my former dance students knew I was back in the States, and the demand from parents and their daughters drew me back to teaching dancing. I began accepting students again, building classes, and planning recitals.

I started in a locally available basement which had become a proper studio almost by accident. During Covid, my father, who works in real estate, had access to gym equipment that facilities were getting rid of due to social distancing requirements. We ended up with ballet barres, mirrors, and proper lighting. Hashem literally made it all work out. Equipment that would have cost thousands of dollars simply fell into our laps.

Building Up

Days and nights blurred together in a haze of dance lessons, recitals, college, and friends’ weddings.

Even my own marriage and move to Israel didn’t stop the dancing. I taught dancing in Israel, and ran recitals and dance lessons remotely from my apartment on Paran! The time difference led to some bizarre incidents (like when I woke up one morning to a frantic text message from a student who’d been locked out of the basement studio while I was blissfully sleeping), but on the whole, things worked out.

When we returned to Chicago with one toddler in tow, and another baby on the way, it was almost inevitable that I just continued with the dancing.

People asked, “You’re still dancing? In that basement? Cute!” It definitely wasn’t the professional venue I dreamed of.

My husband started looking for a building. I posted in a few places and reached out to people with connections. The answer came, unexpectedly, on our kollel group text. One of the women had a two-year-old daughter, and she was waiting for her to be old enough to join a dance class for a while.

“My father owns some places on Touhy,“ she texted. And then she sent his contact information.

It wasn’t long before we were renting our current space, a great central location that only needed a little fixing up. My business degree came into play as I built my dream of providing the Jewish community with a place that would be the complete antithesis of the secular dance studio’s inappropriate atmosphere — and I called it DanceWorks. Because dance works — to instill confidence, a sense of community, friendships, and joy. I wanted to create a venue where Jewish girls, boys, and women could (separately) dance in a frum, nurturing environment, where they could learn to celebrate their successes, their strength, their expression, and their Yiddishkeit — all in one place.

Speed Bumps

I had a degree in business and understood, at least in theory, what needed to be done — but putting it into practice was an entirely different challenge. College teaches what to do; life teaches you how to do it.

I always looked for advice and mentoring, but running a fledgling business was still tough. Dealing with people — mothers fiercely protective of their children — was a lesson in patience and tact. One mother was furious because her daughter didn’t appear in enough pictures from the recital. Another was upset that I gave her daughter a jellybean in a color the little girl didn’t like. She accused me of “jellybean inequality.” After that, I stocked my jellybean jar with all-white marshmallow jellybeans, and now everyone’s happy. But I learned that people get upset, and it’s up to me to rise above it.

Expectations were another hurdle. Parents pay for lessons and then arrive, expecting their children to instantly transform into dancers. But no shortcut allows you to walk out on the first day of class glowing with instant friends and a perfect experience. Real growth, real friendships, and real learning take time. Three weeks is often the fair trial to see the value of our program.

I didn’t anticipate the magnitude of the challenge. Baruch Hashem, enrollment was never a problem — students came in droves. But the physical toll of late nights, constant prep, and the uncertainty of whether it would all work was real. Launching with 40 students was already a big risk, and before long, the number kept climbing.

Today, we’re bursting at the seams. With so many students, it becomes a puzzle: more teachers, more space, more logistics. Every day brings new challenges, but with each one, we learn, figure things out, and keep moving forward.

More than Movement

At Danceworks, my mission goes far beyond teaching dance steps. When three-year-olds come to their first class, five out of ten will be crying and holding on to their mother’s skirts. By week two, they’re jumping, laughing, and high-fiving their friends.

It’s a place for everyone — the girls who want a fun experience, as well as those who want to pursue performing. My staff and I give them solid training in dance, aiming to make it exciting and enjoyable for every level.

The number-one thing girls gain from dance is confidence. When I watch them on stage at recitals, all dressed up in beautiful, tzniyus costumes, working with dance friends they’ve grown close to, performing choreography they’ve perfected all year… they’re radiant.

Our studio is also a safe haven, especially for kids who struggle elsewhere. School might not be their thing, friends might not be their thing, home may not be their place, but in dance class, we all dance in the same language. My staff greets every single dancer by name because no one’s a barcode here.

Witnessing their transformation is remarkable. Parents frequently share positive changes they observe at home. One mother spent 30 minutes gushing to me and some other mothers in the lobby, describing her daughter’s progress after just four weeks during our summer session.

I try to pay close attention to each student. Yes, there are detailed curricula and lesson plans, and I hold monthly staff meetings to discuss every child’s development — but it’s not just technical progress. I look at every girl’s social, behavioral, and emotional growth. I want each student to have the appropriate challenges they need to reach their potential in every single way. 

Boundless Balance

It’s not all pirouettes and applause.

We work with girls from at least eight different schools across the Jewish spectrum, tailoring our programs to each community’s unique needs. To me, these distinctions are intuitive, but for my non-Jewish staff members, it’s an entire education!

I find myself explaining basic concepts: what tzniyus means, why certain music is appropriate for specific audiences, and how to navigate cultural nuances. The Jewish music world is particularly mysterious to my secular instructors. A hip hop teacher might suggest a Miami Boys track from 2005, without understanding that it won’t resonate with today’s students. And try explaining the difference between Shwekey, Ishay Ribo, and Simcha Leiner to someone who is still struggling to figure out the definition of “yeshivish”! Which means that I’m in charge of all the playlists, costumes, and trying to explain terms like “nachas,” “chap,” and “ruach”!

Another challenge we face is the generational shift in our students. Instant gratification is de rigueur — but it’s an attitude that doesn’t work in the world of dancing. Kids come to acro class wanting to learn a back tuck that day. We address this by showing them the clear progression: first they’ll do push-ups, then handstands, then backbends, and then back walkovers. When the girls see the progress, they’re motivated to do the work.

There are things you can learn from dance that you can’t gain from swimming, baking, or art (as much as I love all three of those activities!). Discipline. Teamwork. Perseverance through difficulty. The worth-it, fought-for accomplishment.

Because long after a girl may have forgotten fifth position in ballet, these are the essential life skills that will carry her through life. Will a frum dancer be in the Bolshoi Ballet? No, but she can be a hardworking, confident, emotionally healthy mother, wife, daughter, and employee, who has the will to work for the life she wants to live.

Perspective on Performance

I often tell my students that the secular view of performing is “Look at me!” It’s an act of taking others’ attention. But the Jewish perspective is the exact opposite: It’s an act of giving. You work hard to perfect a beautiful performance to give your audience a wonderful, inspiring experience.

When I see girls feeling anxious before a recital, wanting to perform perfectly, I share with them the story of Chanah. At first, when Chanah davened for a child, Hashem’s answer was no. But when she reframed her tefillah: “I don’t want a child for myself; I want a child who will grow to be an eved Hashem for You,” everything changed.

I encourage my students to do the same before a performance. Instead of davening, “Hashem, please don’t let me mess up!” I suggest they try, “Hashem, I don’t want this to look good just for me. I want to give the audience a beautiful, uplifting experience. My friend worked so hard and deserves her shining moment. My mother has supported me and deserves to see something meaningful.”

This simple shift transforms performance from self-promotion into service. Our dances become opportunities to elevate both dancers and audience alike. Physical movement becomes spiritual expression. Dance becomes a vehicle for kedushah.

Looking Forward

Today, our studio has over 400 students and more than ten teachers. We also teach in a number of schools, bringing the total number of students impacted closer to 900. We offer women’s classes, and recently added a popular Ruach Boys Breakdancing class on a separate day from the girls’ classes.

Behind the scenes, we turn to our rabbanim for guidance, search for months to find modest performance costumes, spend hours building kosher music playlists, and interview incredible teachers who want to work in an uplifting space.

My husband learns in kollel full-time, and then puts in another who-knows-how-many hours building studio furniture, managing finances, and helping with much of the back end work. With two little ones underfoot, this is definitely a family enterprise requiring total commitment.

But when mothers tell me their daughters wake up every single day of the week asking, “Is today dance day?” that’s my applause.

When I hear one student encouraging another, “You can do it! Don’t give up! Let’s do it together,” that’s my fuel.

When shy girls step away from their mother’s skirts to confidently take the stage, that makes everything worth it.

For the frum girls, boys, and women who come to Danceworks, it’s a place that is kosher, deeply empowering, and beautiful.

And I finally understand why Hashem gave me this seemingly impossible passion. He didn’t give it to me so I could be on a stage. He gave it to me so I could build one.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 965)