Seeing the Ballet Through My Toddler's Eyes
- Kimberly Marie Olivier
- Dec 28, 2025
- 4 min read
When I put my son to bed, he asked me to hold his hand and pray with him for the first time. The room was dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after a full day. Then, as if the stillness invited it, he began to remember.
“The ballet,” he whispered.
“The man in the studio.
The capes.”
He lay in his crib, piecing together the day in soft fragments. I was captivated by my two-year old’s attempt to describe his day in full sentences, his memory lighting up as he spoke. I answered him gently, meeting him where he was.
“Yes, the dancers were practicing and whipping the capes. That was Don Quixote.”
Earlier that day, we peeked into a Don Q rehearsal of male dancers, swinging their capes. The rehearsal director greeted us; and one of the dancers instinctively picked up my son to welcome him.
His recollection continued, describing the moment in Stars & Stripes, when San Francisco Ballet's entire 41-member cast came out for the finale.
My little one softly said, “Lots of dancers.”
“Yes,” I affirmed with a smile, “there were a lot of dancers that all came out.”
I found myself amazed—not only by what he noticed, but by how present he was. Both of my children had quietly watched world-class dancers rehearse two complete ballets (Balanchine’s, Serenade and Stars & Stripes). Nearly two and a half hours. My youngest eventually fell asleep, as infants do, despite the piano, the applause, the bursts of rhythmic thuds echoing through the studio. My older son stayed attentive, engaged, and curious.
Gratitude echoed in my being as I reflected on that day—time shared with my sons and my mother, who came along with us. My son hugged dancers, exchanged high-fives, and raced down the hallway in his sandals while a dancer playfully chased him in pointe shoes. Former colleagues welcomed my children with ease and warmth. It felt like a continuation—of who I had been, and who I am becoming.
I had performed these ballets myself during my years with San Francisco Ballet, both as a student and professionally. I surprised myself by how it felt to watch. I was proud. I was happy. Emotions of jealousy, resentment, or sadness were not present. I was not aching to return or grasping for what once was.
There was one moment, though, that brought tears to my eyes. A young dancer I had known years ago—then a student, now a company member—performed a role I once danced myself as a trainee (Stars & Stripes, Tall Lead). I recalled conversations, the encouragement exchanged, the quiet hope shared between two Black women navigating classical ballet. I contained my emotions as these memories resurfaced. Watching her thrive, dancing beautifully in the present moment, filled me with joy. I then watched two other Black dancers in their lead roles. It felt complete in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
So, as my son and I reminisced over our inspirational and memorable time at the ballet, I felt deeply blessed and thankful—for the ballet dancers, for the invitation, and for the way something unexpected can arrive right on time.
Cultivating Their World
At the end of this wonderful day, as night fell quiet, the thought to be more intentional with my son’s day tomorrow beamed in my mind.
We create our children’s worlds—sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes instinctively, often in the margins of our own exhaustion. I felt a renewed curiosity about how to weave care for them with care for myself, not as competing needs, but as something that could coexist creatively.
I began imagining simple possibilities:A children’s museum visit.Stopping by a local dance studio instead of driving into the city.Bringing a drum to the park, letting rhythm lead the afternoon.Exploring different forms of movement and art together.Recording small moments and watching them back later.Inviting community in—family, friends, shared spaces—where everyone could breathe a little more freely.
No answers. Just openings.
That day at the ballet was not a solution. It was a gift. One that arrived quietly, without asking me to do anything more than notice it.
And sometimes, that feels like enough.
This is the beginning of me writing. Thank you for being here at the start.
A Prayer I Wrote After This Day (Optional Reflection)
After I put my son to bed that night—after holding his hand, after listening to his whispered memories—I felt moved to write prayers. I’m sharing a version of it here for anyone who may be in a harder season and wants to read on.
Dear Lord,
Thank You for the unexpected gift of this day. Thank You for moments of joy that arrive without warning, especially when I feel depleted. May I retain these pleasant memories. Thank You for my children, for their wonder, their needs, their trust.
May you bring healing, comfort, and joy to those that blessed us today.
I ask for peace—for myself, and for all those carrying quiet burdens no one else sees.For parents doing their best while feeling stretched thin.For children everywhere who need protection, comfort, basic necessities, and care.
Help me to stand firm when my peace is challenged. To let difficult moments pass without condemnation. To remain open—to growth I cannot yet see forming.
Thank You for mercy.Thank You for grace that meets us in simple yet powerful ways.
In Christ's Name,
Amen.
This piece began as a personal journal entry and was edited for clarity and flow with the help of a trusted human editor and AI tools.
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