It feels like another death of my career. Maybe that’s a hyperbolic feeling, but it’s what I’m thinking now. The door has closed. The path is blocked. Isabel Morales the ballerina. It’s an identity that will slowly be worn away, like the tag on a well-used piece of clothing. It’ll fade, and, gradually, I’ll get a new one. Isabel Morales, the nanny. The yoga instructor. The college student. But right now, I’m just Isabel, and I’m lost.
