Since my first dance class at four, art has been my anchor. My mother enrolled me because she noticed how tightly I clung to her hand in public and how often I said, “I’m okay, but I’m a little bit scared.” She hoped dance would help me manage my anxiety, and she was half right. I am still anxious most days, but never on stage. Performing is where I feel joy, calm, and power. It’s where I transform. That is why I have chosen to major in musical theater and dance at Howard University. My art is not just for me. It’s a vessel for healing, connection, and change. I plan to make a positive impact on the world by using musical theater and tap dance to uplift underrepresented stories, particularly those of Black and queer performers. Tap and musical theater are not just performance styles; they are a history, a language, and a vessel for cultural identity. I want my work to challenge the idea that ballet is the “gold standard” of dance and instead celebrate the power and depth of tap’s African American roots. I’ve already begun this work by teaching tap in my high school and theater department. I don’t just teach shuffles and time steps—I teach history. I tell students how tap was born when enslaved Africans were stripped of drums and language and used their feet to create rhythm. I teach that ballet, while important, is one branch of a much larger, richer tree. I want my peers to understand that tap is the sound of resilience, survival, and joy. Representation is at the heart of what I do. I dream of merging my love for tap and musical theater into a full-length production that honors the history and future of this incredible dance form. Surrounded by a legacy of Black excellence, I know I’ll have the mentorship, training, and creative space to bring that vision to life. As a Black queer dancer, I know what it feels like not to see yourself on stage. Viola Davis once said, “You need to see a physical representation of your dreams.” I want to be that representation. I want to be the mirror for others that I once needed for myself. The four-year-old Brooklynn is still a little bit scared but even more excited about what the future can hold.