MANHATTAN — Who doesn’t dream of becoming a Rockette? Picture it: You’re a devastatingly gorgeous woman, dripping in glitter and glamour. You lift your perfectly toned legs to the sky in sync with dozens of others in a flawless kickline. You represent a storied tradition to scores of wide-eyed Christmas lovers who swarm Radio City Music Hall every night to see you.

I don’t. Not only am I devastatingly uncoordinated, but also the feeling of eyes on me has the same impact on my psyche as a pinch of salt on a slug. I melt; I turn inside out. If I could shroud myself in a quilt and move through the world like a blanketed, formless void, I would. But I’ve been trying something this year where I don’t flee at the slightest hint of discomfort, so I decided to open my heart. When I was offered a chance to rehearse with the legendary dancers to learn how they do what they do, I said yes.

Now nearing its end, 2025 has been the most transformative year of the 31 I’ve lived so far. For starters, I’ve lost 100 pounds — a third of my body weight. I look radically different in December than I did in January, and it’s the result of changing the way I approach every aspect of my daily life. It has made me physically and emotionally stronger than I have ever been. With that new mental fortitude comes the desire to identify what else I’m afraid of and conquer it.

My old compulsion to avoid perception at all costs would have to go. I figured there’s no way that putting myself on camera alongside physically perfect dancers would be more humiliating than having to take questions about my body from relatives I haven’t seen in a while — something that happens to me now with some regularity. So I put on my most festive body suit and my most forgiving yoga pants and headed to Radio City.

I know that I’m here because it’s funny. Watching a woman with very little innate athletic ability who is, moreover, not a size 0 join a kickline with four Rockettes (tagline: “Celebrating 100 years of precision, athleticism and sisterhood”) is good content. It’s a lot like watching a viral Facebook video of a puppy trying to chase after a pack of wild horses.

Standing in front of the enormous mirror of the rehearsal studio, I tried to prepare everyone, from Yahoo’s long-suffering video producer Luke to the four gorgeous Rockettes who had just filed into the dance studio, that I am very bad at this. Although my plan was to embrace my role as comic relief, my voice wavers as I admit to the gathered Rockettes that I’m nervous.

“No!!! Why are you nervous!!!” the Rockettes exclaimed, their four different reactions blending into a melodious harmony of upbeat enthusiasm.

Athena Petrizzo, who’s now in her sixth season with the group, taught me how to do a strut kick — that’s the easier leg lift that the Rockettes do on stage. It’s not to be confused with the world-famous high kick, which they each complete about 160 times per show, but which I wouldn’t have a prayer of achieving, not even if I stretched for three months.

Athena was gentle, guiding me through a brief warm-up and an intensely basic eight-count of choreography, which I could barely remember even though it was basically just kicking and posing. She kept telling me to hold up my left hand, and for some reason, my right hand always shot up. When the five of us formed a line together, arms linked as we kicked, Athena softly reminded me that I should look at our reflection in the mirror in front of us instead of turning my head to watch her every move. Little did she know I’d been avoiding perceiving myself for basically my entire life.

I wasn’t as afraid of failing as a dancer — that was a given — as I was to be seen by people who may have seemed outwardly nice but may very well have been forming thoughts and opinions about me without my consent. This was the terror that had long dogged me. Learning to, as our most famous modern philosopher once said, let them, felt like a revolutionary act.

These strangers had no idea that last year, I wouldn’t have physically been able to pull off a 15-minute dance practice without huffing and puffing. I allowed myself a moment of pride. I worked very hard to be able to move my body with ease, and I worked even harder to trick myself into loving doing it.

At the end of practice, we all high-fived, and the dancers clapped for me. “You're a Radio City Rockette!” Athena exclaimed. Her warmth was so disarming, like that of a popular cheerleader in high school who you resent out of jealousy before you find out she’s genuinely nice and deserving of all happiness. I let myself believe her.

The dancers then led me to their dressing room, where Emily King, now in her seventh season, taught me how to achieve the signature Rockette look — a red lip and a French twist.

The lipstick was easy. The dancers told me that there’s actually not one standard color or kind — everyone has a different complexion and different concerns about the lipstick’s staying power, so they go with what works for them. Courtney Sullivan, a third-year dancer, recommended the Sephora Collection cream lip stain in 95 Electric Ruby.

I put mine on as they watched, and I it got all over my teeth, which they all swiftly assured me happens to all of them every single day — they dab their smiles with a paper towel right before they go onstage.

The harder part was the tight buns the Rockettes wear through each of their dances, which must withstand frequent outfit and wig changes, the fastest of which takes 78 seconds.

To demonstrate the importance of a tight bun amid chaos, Emily pulled her hair out of its sculptural French twist, and I felt a stab in my heart as if I were watching someone throw soup at a Rembrandt. She let her long blonde hair cascade past her shoulders before talking me through the process, which involves gathering your hair, smoothing the top, twisting it to one side, then the other, more smoothing, more gathering, more twisting, and then sticking the entire thing with a giant bobby pin. Now fix it.

The inscrutable architecture of the bun is held together by some magic combination of bobby pins and hairspray. Emily told me it doesn’t even really matter what you do to get your hair up — the important thing is to keep working at it until you achieve a smooth bun. Some Rockettes nail it on their first try, but most of the time, it takes 2 or 3 sets of attempts and failures.

After giving it a cursory go, I admit defeat to Emily, who was on her second attempt at that point. “It won't read from the audience,” she said with a smile.

The tension in my shoulders immediately dissipated, and I stopped trying to fake good posture. I felt released from the shackles of chasing perfection for a moment, knowing that it’s not effortless, not even for the Rockettes.

After I posted a photo with the dancers, I got half a dozen Instagram DMs of women telling me how much they wished they too could be a Rockette. It was a hard-fought dream for all four sitting around me, who have danced and trained and auditioned and forged themselves into elite athletes, though they all downplayed the excruciating work in favor of praising its rewards.

“It's been literally a dream come true. Every day I come to work, and I'm just so thankful and inspired,” Athena tells me. Courtney says that she can’t get over the fact that as a Rockette, she’s a part of someone’s family tradition, year after year. Putting on a flawless show every night has created an unbreakable sisterhood. Sole Mitchell, back for her second season, says the girls on the line have become her family.

My hard work and discipline over the last year have led to something far humbler but equally life-changing. If I’m going to keep talking about myself and my body, I know I have to at least address how I got to where I was and what prompted me to change myself so drastically.

I’ll keep it simple: Over many years, I’ve spoken to several professionals about my binge eating disorder, getting therapy and nutritional guidance on how to overcome this beast that has sunk its claws into me since I was a child. I was aware of the fact that to defeat it would mean losing weight, and I assumed the cost would be what I saw as even more cruelty — restricting, disciplining and pushing myself constantly to be in control when all I ever really wanted was to be free.

I only decided that something had to change after I hit rock bottom: A friend made a flippant comment about how she was shocked a famous person with a body like mine was still alive, given his weight. If someone who cares about me could say something like that about me to my face, what would strangers say about me in private? My worst fears were validated. I spiralled, becoming reclusive for months, hiding away, harming myself with pleasureless meals to dull my pain until I was nauseous and felt as bad physically as I did emotionally. I realized that the way I was living — constantly punishing myself — didn’t feel like being alive.

To actually defeat the beast, I had to stop being mean to myself all the time. The result — more than 100 pounds lost in 11 months — came directly from showing radical kindness to myself, which is contrary to the punishment that weight loss culture demands.

After we were done with hair and make-up, the Rockettes took me into their costume room, and it’s perhaps the first space that didn’t fill me with knee-jerk anxiety. I’m too transfixed on the glitter and ruffles to feel bad about how these outfits will never fit me.

Athena covers my cheeks in giant red paper circles, and the others help me into a tall, cumbersome hat from the Parade of the Wooden Soldiers. “Every Rockette who has ever been a Rockette has been in this costume,” Sole tells me. I can’t see anything. I can’t take a single step without feeling like it’ll fall and take my head off with it. “Honestly, it’s just practice. A lot of practice,” one Rockette explains. Another advises, “You can put on your imagination and really feel like you’re made of wood.”

I look ridiculous. I am letting myself look ridiculous. We’re all giggling about how iconic yet ridiculous this is. I’m realizing now — as I’ve realized a thousand times over the last year — that making my body smaller was not the point. Physical perfection was not the point. Going outside and putting on a show and letting people see me and think whatever they want is the point. That’s what it means to live.

With that, my time as a Rockette is over. A chorus of excited “oh my gods” fills the room as I hug all four of them goodbye. “You’re part of the line now!” Athena assures me. I feel different. I’ve felt different a lot lately.

I’ve had to update my iPhone’s Face ID twice since January because it didn’t recognize me with a narrow face and cheekbones. I’ve watched the people closest to me struggle to know what to say about my distinctly different appearance — do they ask about it? Inquire about my health? Compliment me on my sharper features or the brand-name clothing I can now fit into? Pretend they don’t notice at all?

"You look amazing," one well-intentioned friend told me a few months ago, beaming. Then she squinted at me. "Why?"

“You are smaller. Are you healthy and happy?” a relative asked, feeling obligated to check in after a week of looking at me wearing too-big clothes.

Loved ones don’t just treat me differently in this smaller body. The world does. I no longer strategize about avoiding taking stairs in front of people. I don’t have to research the widths of seats before buying theater tickets. As Luke and I exit the building, we take a detour to check out the stage. I was haunted by the thought that, this time last year, I probably wouldn’t have even fit into one of the chairs in Radio City Music Hall for the 90 minutes of their show without bruising both sides of my thighs.

It’s hard not to let that increased freedom feel like euphoria — I’ve overcome a roadblock set by the world. But that freedom is also tinged with sadness. Showing compassion and grace to my old body was what made it go away. It doesn’t feel fair.

Since I became a Rockette, I’ve seen them in action again a few times. The first was on the opening night of their 100th year of shows. I wore my kitschiest Christmas sweater to Radio City, when I noticed that everyone sitting around me seemed… hot. There were so many wildly attractive women of all ages filling every aisle.

When the lights went down and a speaker took the stage, she revealed why that was — there were more than 500 Rockettes in the audience. Ah, yes, my much hotter sisters.

“I’m one of them, by the way,” I joked to the three friends I brought with me. We laughed, but it still made me feel warm. After all, we had all shared the same stage, the same costume and the same courage to put ourselves out there.

I spotted them again, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with my husband and in-laws on the couch in Ohio. “Kelsey was a Rockette,” my husband announced. I rolled my eyes and clarified: “For a few minutes.”

I pointed out Athena. “She was so patient with me,” I told the room, and that same warmth I felt in her presence washed over me. I remembered how she made me feel.

In my most optimistic moments, I allow myself to believe that that’s what people remember about me after they see me. Not what I look like, or how much I’ve changed or needed to change, or how much better I am now than I used to be. I’ve had to confront the fact that we all need bodies to live, and that I can’t escape mine by trying to deny its very existence, by hiding it away to keep it safe. I’m strut-kicking, wobbling, glittering, trying. I’m putting on my most festive bodysuit and throwing myself on stage.