I recently had the opportunity to sit down with second-year nursing major and dance minor Rachel Chandler, someone I’ve also had the privilege of working with on several projects this semester. Getting to know her, not just as a collaborator but as a person, revealed something deeper: a dedication to dance that has shaped nearly every part of her life.
Rachel has been dancing for 16 years. Those years span competitive studios, local spaces, and now collegiate dance. Each phase demands something different from her, yet all are connected by the same constant: commitment.
When I asked her, “When you strip away the applause, the mirrors, and the audience, who are you when you dance?” her answer wasn’t something easily defined.
She told me that when she dances, she lets everything go in ways she can’t quite put into words. And maybe that’s the point. Some things aren’t meant to be explained, they’re meant to be felt. You get the sense that if she were dancing in that moment instead of speaking, you would understand exactly what she meant without her saying a single word.
Dance, however, has never come without sacrifice.
When asked what it has taken from her and what it has given, Rachel didn’t hesitate to acknowledge both sides. She spoke about the physical toll on her body and the time it demanded. Growing up, dance wasn’t just something she did, it was everything. There wasn’t much space in between for anything else. It meant missing out on parts of childhood, moments she couldn’t get back, and things she sometimes wished she could have been present for.
But what dance gave her in return is immeasurable.
A community. Lifelong friendships. A support system built through shared struggle, discipline, and passion. The kind of connection that only exists when people push themselves side by side, day after day. It’s clear that for Rachel, dance didn’t just fill her time, it built her world.
Then came the question that often reveals the most:
“If your body could no longer dance tomorrow, what part of your identity would feel lost…and what part would still remain?”
Her answer was immediate.
Without hesitation, she said “I think what would remain is the love that I have for it, and the arts.”
And that response says everything.
Because being a dancer isn’t just about movement, it’s about something deeper, something internal that doesn’t disappear when the music stops. Even if the physical ability were gone, the passion, the understanding, and the identity she’s built would still exist.
That kind of love doesn’t fade. It doesn’t depend on the circumstance. It simply becomes part of who you are. Rachel Chandler is a dancer… not just because of what she can do, but because of what dance has become within her.
Thank you, Rachel, for trusting me with your story.
There’s something deeply moving about witnessing what art can do for a person, how it can shape, ground, and carry someone through parts of life that don’t always make sense. This story is a simple reminder of why art matters, why it deserves to be protected, nurtured, and kept alive.
Because it is never just art.
For people like Rachel, art becomes identity. It becomes language when words fall short. It becomes a place to exist fully, even when the rest of the world feels uncertain.
And that kind of impact doesn’t end when the music does.