Running a dance studio for over 17 years meant I hosted a lot of recitals. Most went smoothly, many were emotional and exciting, and a few had their hiccups—but one stands out as the absolute worst. Not because anything catastrophic happened on stage, but because of everything leading up to it, everything surrounding it, and how it all made me feel.
This is the story of that recital—and why I’m actually grateful for how terribly wrong it went.
The Year Everything Changed
That particular year, a lot was shifting behind the scenes. I was in the process of selling my first studio location to one of my teachers. I knew it was the right decision, both personally and professionally, but that didn’t make it easy. I had built that studio from the ground up, and many of my students had been with me for over a decade. We’d grown up together, in a way. The announcement hit hard. I understood their hurt, even though I stood firmly by my choice.
At the same time, there was tension among some staff members who felt they should have been given the opportunity to purchase the studio. Some were very young, and in my opinion, not quite ready for the responsibility. Still, emotions ran high, and I was managing a storm of feelings—my own included.
Meanwhile, I was still running my second location. That meant I had two separate recitals to plan for to finish out the season.
Venue Nightmare
Historically, for my second location, we’d always used the same theatre—classic, elegant, with beautiful lighting and a stage that created that “wow” moment when you walked through the doors. But that year, the theatre announced it would no longer host dance recitals. My heart dropped. I had one other venue option locally, but it was already fully booked.
Desperate, I got creative.
The local hockey arena was taking out its ice for the season, and I had the thought—what if I could build a stage on the rink floor? We could place chairs in front and even allow families to sit in the stands. The dancers could use the hockey change rooms as dressing rooms (yes, as gross as that sounds). It wasn’t ideal, but I was running out of time and options. So I said yes.
I booked the arena.
The Build-Up
Despite the chaos swirling in my personal and professional life, I got to work. I was organized. Like, hyper-organized. Tickets? Done. Show order? Perfected. Programs? Printed and ready to go. Costumes? Ordered and handed out. I had my usual spreadsheets, checklists and timelines. From a logistics perspective, it was an organized, on-schedule recital.
But the magic? The feeling? It was gone.
When families walked in, they weren’t met with a lobby decked out in signage or photo ops or a clear sense of where to go. There was no branded merchandise table. No flower sales. No themed décor. The hockey change rooms were dim, smelled like sweat, and didn’t make the dancers feel special. It felt… empty. It felt like a recital without a soul.
And the worst part was, I knew it. I could see it on people’s faces. That sparkle I used to see in students’ and parents’ eyes when they walked into the theatre? It was missing.
And the students—especially the ones that had been with me for several years—felt it, too. This wasn’t the end of the season I wanted to give them. And it broke my heart.
The Aftermath
In the weeks that followed, registration for our recreational programs was noticeably lower than in years prior. Families left for a competing studio down the road—one that made a point of showing off their recital magic on social media. Elaborate shows, over the top sparkle, flowers, props, custom photo backdrops. The contrast was stark.
That experience hit me hard. I had done everything I thought mattered. The show ran like clockwork. The dancers looked beautiful. But it wasn’t enough. And that’s when I had to ask myself: What went wrong?
What I Learned
Looking back now, that awful recital taught me more than any smooth production ever did. It’s easy to coast when things are going well—but the moments where we fall short? That’s where the gold is.
Here are the biggest takeaways I’ll carry with me forever:
1. Being organized is only part of creating magic
Running a clean, well-timed recital is important. Of course it is. But it’s not what makes your families talk about it for weeks afterward. It’s not what creates memories that last. Magic doesn’t live in a perfectly timed line-up—it lives in the experience.
I missed that piece. I had tunnel vision on logistics and forgot about the feeling. The atmosphere. The “wow” moments. And that was a mistake I never made again.
2. Your dance families will meet you at your level of effort
When I didn’t give it my all, neither did they. Why would they? I wasn’t excited, I wasn’t proud of the space, and it showed. That realization lit a fire under me. From that moment on, I poured energy into every event—big or small.
I started going all-in on the “extras.” Camps became themed and over-the-top. Referral programs got cute branding and fun incentives. Studio theme days included social media countdowns and full buy-in from staff. And guess what? Families showed up. Energy improved. Word-of-mouth exploded. Because when I cared more—they did too.
3. Branded merch isn’t just about revenue
Yes, merchandise can be a solid income stream—but that’s not the biggest reason to invest in it. When your students wear studio gear, they feel like part of something. They’re proud. They show it off to their friends. They bond over it.
At that hockey arena recital, I had no merch. No hoodies. No bows. No water bottles. Nothing for families to take home, nothing that marked the occasion. It felt like an event that could be forgotten. After that event, I took the time to design and promote our merch. Not just because it sells—but because it builds community.
Moving Forward
That recital hurt. It really did. I carried the guilt of letting my dancers down. But I also believe everything happens for a reason—and that season, tough as it was, made me a better leader.
If you’re a studio owner reading this and feeling overwhelmed—especially if you’re trying something new or taking a risk—let this be your reminder: The “magic” isn’t a coincidence. It’s not something that just happens. It’s created.
You don’t need a Broadway theatre to make it magical. You need intention. Energy. Details. And heart.
Since that year, every recital I’ve hosted (even in less-than-ideal venues) has had all the bells and whistles. Families walked in to branded signage, themed photo ops, merch tables, and flowers. Dancers feel special. Parents feel like it’s an event worth remembering.
Because it is.
That worst recital? It made every future one better.
There’s a lesson in every struggle. This one taught me that organization alone doesn’t create a standout experience. It’s the atmosphere, the emotion, and the effort you put in that makes your studio unforgettable.
So to any dance studio owner out there feeling burnt out or navigating big transitions—trust that the hard moments are shaping your best ones. And remember: it’s never “just a recital.” It’s a chance to show your families who you are and what you stand for.
Make it magic.
Haylie James