I was ten minutes away from the biggest audition I had ever had to face when it happened. One second I was spinning, the next I was on the ground in pain. Though I had not been x-rayed yet, dozens of similar situations led me to recognize the problem instantly--I had sprained my ankle. My audition time was rescheduled for later in the day, and I was sent to see a doctor. My ankle hurt, but the pain was bearable. I expected nothing more than a routine x-ray and having to place ice on the sprained area in fifteen minute increments for a couple of hours. That isn’t what I got. Instead I was given a choice, a choice that had to be made almost immediately. The doctor told me that I could grab a bag of ice and an ankle brace, and be on my way; that I could head right back to my audition, almost as if I had never landed on my ankle the wrong way. My second option was to go home, elevate my ankle, and stay off of it for a couple of weeks. Without delay, I chose the former. I had trained for months, and worked myself like a dog in preparation for that audition, so there was no way I was going to turn back now. Before I could leave, the doctor clued me in on the implications of my decision. He said that returning to the audition would only make the sprain hurt worse. I wasn’t shocked, I mean, of course it would hurt worse if I was dancing on it. It was what came out of the doctor’s mouth next that threw me for a loop. He told me that not only would my ankle hurt worse, but it also wouldn’t heal properly. If I were to dance through the sprain, it could affect my dancing forever. I was crushed. To protect myself from permanent injury meant giving up on an opportunity. It meant that everything I had done all year was for nothing. It meant giving up. I am an extreme perfectionist; in dance, that is an unwritten requirement. The only thing I hate more than losing is giving up, which is exactly what I was about to do. For a