When Grace Shows Up Unscheduled

I hate to admit this, but for the second time in a not-very-long span, I showed up to dance practice at the wrong time. Again. And this time there was a coach involved, which makes it a double no-no, possibly a triple, depending on how seriously you take grown women who should know how to read their own calendars.

I’d love to blame an invisible calendar goblin, because the day was legitimately complicated. Lessons had been arranged around a morning dentist appointment for my pro and an eye procedure for me. My calendar clearly said “11:45 Dance,” so when the wait at the eye doctor started putting my lessons at risk, I explained the situation, rescheduled the procedure, grabbed my bag, and high-tailed it to the train feeling very responsible and on top of things.

I arrived at the studio at 11:20, where the ever-cheerful front desk attendant, Christian, said, “Wow, you’re here really early to warm up.”

At first I thought, That feels a little unnecessary—twenty-five minutes isn’t excessive. And then the familiar internal alarm went off: Oh no. Did I mess this up?

Yes. I did.

Lessons weren’t until 2:45 p.m. Sasha had a dentist appointment, and we’d built the day around that. The moment it was said out loud, it all came rushing back. I also had a hard stop at 2 p.m. because of an evening commitment, which meant this wasn’t just a mistake—it was a situation that proved my calendar and I are not, in fact, aligned, and a small warning bell that perhaps I have too much on my plate to keep all the balls in the air.

The only upside was that I’d recently had a full rehearsal with the emotions that come with blowing your own schedule. I called Veronika, who manages her husband’s calendar, tail firmly between my legs. “I know this might end up being an expensive non-dance day,” I said. “Just tell me what works for you. I don’t want anyone stressed.”

With that, I asked Christian if there happened to be a yoga mat and whether it would be okay if I quietly did a little yoga in a corner while we figured out whether anything could be salvaged. A mat appeared. I opened my go-to yoga app and started the work—really focusing on breathwork, the kind meant to slow down the parasympathetic nervous system (you know, the one responsible for the full-body you are an idiot response).

The studio emptied as lessons ended. It was quiet except for the yoga teacher’s voice in my earbuds. And then I heard music. Soft, meditative, calming music. For a moment I wondered if I was imagining it. Am I suddenly so good at self-regulation that I’ve unlocked surround sound? I finally  asked Christian if the music was real. “Yes,” he said. “I just thought it might help you right now.”

Wow.

In my twenty-two years of dance, I have messed up my schedule more than once. Teachers and studios have always been gracious—understanding, professional, completely kind. But no one had ever taken an active step to help me feel better in the moment. This was good customer service, yes.  But it was something more- and bigger- this was kindness in practice.

And then—because apparently the day wasn’t done teaching—Sasha arrived as soon as he could, in a great mood, playful, focused, ready to work.

When Dustin showed up, he shared how he once went to the wrong airport and shrugged it off with, “It happens.”

Three moments of grace. None of them required. All of them freely given.

What stayed with me later wasn’t the mistake—I’ve made worse, and I’ll make more. It was how little energy anyone spent keeping score. No one needed an explanation polished into something respectable. No one asked me to perform my remorse. There was simply room made—for error, for recovery, for moving forward without dragging the weight of it behind me.

We spend so much of our lives trying to be competent, efficient, and correct, as if that’s what earns us ease. But days like this remind me that what steadies us isn’t perfection. It’s generosity. The quiet, human kind that says: You’re allowed to be here, even when you get it wrong.

Yes, the scheduling mistake was entirely mine. The grace, however, is something I intend to pass along.