Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Category: dance

  • The Final Recital

    The Final Recital

    Spotlight Dance Conservatory sounds almost like an academic endeavor of celestial bodies moving in the heavens. Before it was Spotlight, it was Dance Etc., and to me, it will always be Dance Etc.

    For 14 years, Olivia has been moving through that little universe of music, lights, costumes, practice, nerves, friendships, disappointments, applause, and growth. I watched one of her classmates receive a 15-year pin, something Olivia did not quite reach. But what she did accomplish may be even more important. She accomplished steadiness, grit, and the quiet and difficult act of not giving up.

    I am so proud of her, especially after this last year. I am proud because when I was her age, I quit too easily. If I didn’t feel like doing something, I walked away, and later in life I had to pay for those decisions. So my heart relaxes a little knowing that she may not have to learn that lesson the same way I did.

    For all these years, I have watched the showcases and recitals. I have watched the costumes, the lights, the music, and the little girl who kept growing up on stage right in front of us.

    My wife deserves as much credit for this accomplishment as my daughter. She poured her heart and soul into these years. The driving, the dresses, the costumes, the arguments, the late nights, the overnight stays, the emotions, all of it. She carried so much of it with Olivia, and I know Olivia will remember.

    Maybe not all of it right away. Maybe not all at once. But in the different seasons of her life, that love will keep revealing itself. Hopefully one day, if Olivia has a daughter of her own, she will understand even more deeply what her mother gave her.

    These things we do for our children often feel like hardship in the moment, but they are really the essence of a life well lived. The friction, the sacrifice, the repetition, the showing up again and again. That is where love becomes real. That is where the lasting bond between a mother and daughter is formed.

    I am also grateful for our family, who has always shown up to support her. My family-in-law, who bring their hearts and show up because that is simply who they are.

    And then there are the people I still look for in the crowd.

    I have to look away sometimes when I watch Olivia dance because I get overwhelmed thinking about my mother. I think about how much she would have wanted to be there for all of this, especially the final recital. I think about how proud she would have been. As I hold back tears, I remind myself that she is there in some way, watching with my father from above, just as proud as two grandparents could possibly be.

    There were hard parts too. I know there were times Olivia felt excluded, and I know how deeply that can hurt, especially when you are young and simply want to belong. I do not know every side of every story, but I know what it felt like watching my daughter carry that pain and keep showing up anyway.

    There is a quiet strength in that. Not the kind that never hurts, but the kind that keeps going even when it does. Olivia has learned, in her own way, that not everyone will see you, include you, or understand you. But that does not mean you are unloved. Sometimes the love that matters most is not found in the approval we were chasing, but in the people who were there all along.

    Then I watched the end of the recital. I watched the younger dancers run up to Olivia on stage, crying, grabbing onto her, sad that she was leaving. I had never heard about that part. I had never really seen that part. And there it was, this unexpected gift of love and affection being poured out on her.

    I also watched the previous owner of the studio make a loving appearance with beautiful poster boards of all the girls, filled with years of recital memories, costumes, and empowering quotes. It was such a thoughtful tribute to who they were, who they had been, and who they were becoming.

    What an incredible thing to witness.

    Maybe that is the lesson. The people who love us, and the people we love, are where our attention should go. Not toward the people who overlooked us. Not toward the ones who made us feel small. Not toward the endless desire to be admired by everyone.

    As I sat there, full of admiration for everything she had done, I felt the weight of all those years that had passed so quickly. I panicked a little because I cannot hold on to any of it. Not the toddler. Not the little girl. Not the young dancer. Not the version of her who still seemed like she would be with us forever.

    She is leaving in the fall. The little dancing girl has grown up. She is ready to take on the world. Maybe that is what all of this was really preparing us for. Not just the final bow. Not just the last recital. Not just the end of 14 years at Dance Etc. and Spotlight Dance Conservatory, but the moment when we have to let her step forward into her own life with courage, tenderness, discipline, and strength.

    The stage lights will go down. The music will stop. The costumes will be put away. But something greater remains. Fourteen years ago, a little girl walked into a dance studio. Now a young woman walks out.

    And all I can say is thank you.

  • All State

    All State

    Last night we went to the All State Dance Banquet at the Aqua Turf Club in Southington, Connecticut.

    My daughter was honored there. She was a recipient, a winner, a true star. Newtown had an incredible showing, with eight students recognized in All State Dance and seven in All State Academic. Most other towns seemed to have two or three, and far fewer on the academic side. I have always said we must have good water in Newtown. It grows the kids tall and apparently makes them pretty smart too.

    It was a very special night, and I was so happy to be there celebrating my daughter’s accomplishments. Over the years, my wife and I have often divided and conquered when it came to the kids’ activities. That usually meant my wife and daughter were the ones going on the dance excursions, trips, banquets, and showcases. Because of that, it felt especially important for me to be there. Really, there was never any question that I would be.

    They put on a beautiful event for the young women, and for one young man named Jack, who all the girls from Newtown seemed to know and love.

    My daughter’s journey through these years has truly happened in the blink of an eye. It feels like I just looked up and suddenly she is grown, getting ready to leave for college this fall. Where did all the time go?

    In some ways, time moved slower in the beginning. When she was little, and my wife was commuting to Norwalk, I was the one getting her ready in the morning and bringing her to my mother’s day care, then picking her up later. Those felt like slower days. Sesame Street would be on in the background, and Abby Cadabby would keep watch over her while I got ready for work.

    There are so many things that change as they grow, and then one day they are grown. I saw something recently about how many moments in life happen for the last time without us even realizing it. You only recognize them later, when you stop and think. I found myself thinking about something as simple as holding her hand. How long has it been since we last held hands? The last time she reached for my hand while crossing a road probably felt like yesterday then, but in truth it was many years ago. So many years ago, just like the car seat rides and booster seat rides home, singing songs together in the car.

    There is something natural about the rush to prepare your children for the world, to help them become capable, confident, and independent. That is part of a father’s job. And yet there is also something heartbreaking about doing it well, because the very success of it means they cannot stay young forever. You cannot keep them small. You cannot keep them reaching for your hand. I still think about those quiet moments watching her shows beside me in bed, holding her favorite sippy cup. I have always been sentimental about the past, about the ache and beauty of nostalgia.

    But I am just as grateful now for this new season of her life. For all the firsts still ahead of her. For all the adventures, lessons, friendships, and memories she has yet to make. Last night was not just a celebration of what she has accomplished. It was also a quiet reminder to me that life keeps moving, whether we are ready or not.

    And maybe that is the bittersweet beauty of being a parent. You spend years helping them grow, praying they become strong, capable, and ready for the world. Then one day you look up and realize they are. The little girl who once held your hand is now stepping forward into her own life. It is hard to let go of the old days, but what a gift it is to have lived them. And what a privilege it is to still be here, watching her shine.

  • The Last Holiday Show

    The Last Holiday Show

    Sunday came and I found myself getting ready, excited to attend our final Christmas show recital. It was Olivia’s last holiday performance as a senior, and it struck me all at once that seventeen years have passed in a blink. Where did all this time go? The days feel long while you’re living them, yet the years slip by before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

    All those seasons of gathering our family for the holiday show came back to me. The performance has always been something special, a bright spot that lifts my mood just as the weather turns cold and dreary. It marks the beginning of Christmas, with all its magic, love, and giving.

    She looked beautiful on that stage. I felt like the proudest father in the audience. Every routine showed how much she’s grown, how hard she’s worked, and how steadily she has become her own person. I remembered those early performances when she was small and nervous, and how each year she stepped out there with more confidence and talent. All the practices, the patience, the late nights, the dedication were visible in every movement.

    I’m grateful to my wife for the countless hours she devoted to making it all possible—practices, recitals, overnight trips—staying steady through the friendship drama, cliques, breakups, and reunions that came with growing up.

    My pride in Olivia is beyond words. I always admired the seniors who stayed committed long enough to reach that moment when they received their flowers. Watching her become one of them felt surreal. Life moves quickly, and moments like this reveal everything that mattered along the way.

    I think about how many things I never finished myself, which makes me even more grateful that my children have their own sense of follow-through. They see things through to the end. They carry a strength that feels like its own kind of blessing. Every day I feel lucky to be their father, and especially blessed to have a daughter as talented, determined, and beautiful as Olivia.

    When the show reached the March of the Wooden Soldiers, my thoughts drifted to my parents. I felt the ache of knowing they weren’t physically with us after all the years they sat in those seats cheering her on, and sometimes dozing off. They didn’t get to see her big senior moment. That ache lasted only a heartbeat before a sense of comfort settled in. I knew they were with us in their own way, watching from a place we couldn’t see, feeling pride and joy beyond anything we could imagine.

    Sitting beside my brother reminded me how grateful I am for him. He has been steady through every chapter of our lives, carrying memories only the two of us share and bringing a sense of grounding and humor that makes our family feel whole. We were still very much the little boys who grew up wrestling, laughing, and knocking into one another. He is the last piece of our original tribe, and having him there made the night feel complete.

    Our extended family filled the row around us, in-laws who have become as real and true as any blood relative. Their presence added warmth to the evening and reminded me how lucky and blessed we are to have such a circle.

    By the end of the night, I felt refilled with love. The kind that settles deep inside you long after the lights fade, quietly reminding you that every step, every year, and every moment is a beautiful mystery worth living.