30 Years of Believing I Was Uncoordinated

“I want to be a manga artist.” That was my dream when I was a child.

In elementary school, I was short, thin, and lacked strength. On top of that, my naturally shy personality didn't help, and I was particularly bad at movements that required sudden bursts of energy while being the center of attention—like throwing, catching, or sprinting.

Dodgeball is a staple of elementary school play, but I, of course, hated it. During the mere five or ten minutes of recess, I would watch the boys grab the ball the moment the bell rang and dash toward the playground, feeling as if I were looking at aliens.

I love drawing.
I love making things.
There is nothing more blissful than the time spent at my desk, immersed in creation. And before I knew it, I had convinced myself that I was bad at sports and hated them.

The dream of becoming a manga artist mentioned at the beginning was something I had decided on somewhat aimlessly.
Seeing me doodling all the time during recess (and even during class), the kids around me would say, “You could be a manga artist.” Since everyone said so, I thought, “Maybe I can?” and just decided on it. It was a simple-minded idea, both for those saying it and for me receiving it, as if the only job involving drawing was being a manga artist.
Although I didn't end up becoming a “manga artist,” I became a commercial designer. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s not far off either.

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I have loved music since I was little.
Before I could even walk on my own, I would pull myself up and sway to Madonna’s “Vogue” playing in the house. It seems I loved dancing before I even developed a sense of self.
In elementary school, I used to dance like crazy at my own private disco on a regular basis, though I’ll spare the details as it’s a long story (please refer to past articles if you’re curious).

Looking back, I probably wasn't uncoordinated to begin with.
I loved jump rope. I loved stilts. I had been good at climbing trees since kindergarten. Every day, I would play baseball or badminton with my father until the sun went down. As long as I got the hang of it, I could do it reasonably well.

And yet, the reason I came to think I “hated sports” must have been the eyes of others, the fear of failure and ridicule, and my strangely high pride. I don't intend to make grand statements about the flaws of school education, but I suppose I was just pushed out by the limitations of physical education classes conducted in large groups.

Once I developed a sense of inferiority, I naturally never blossomed, and my PE grades remained a 2 or 1 on a 5-point scale throughout elementary, middle, and high school.

After I started working, I had no opportunities to exercise, no desire to do so, and I lived my life convinced that I was incapable of sports. When meeting people as an adult, I would naturally introduce myself by saying, “I’m bad at sports and I hate them.”

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Music was the only thing I continued to love.
One day in my 33rd year of life, it was music that reconnected me with “exercise,” from which I had long been estranged.

A certain music agency, whose company motto is “Don't kill your talent,” hosted a dance workshop for beginners. The purpose was something like, “What does it mean to move your body to music?” and “I want you to feel that moving to the beat is fun, regardless of whether you are good or bad.”
I have absolutely no confidence in sports, but I thought that with such a gentle concept, it might be okay for me to participate.

I was lucky enough to be selected and attend the workshop, and that day, I danced in a dance studio for the first time in my life.
Whether I was good or bad, I’m not sure. I don’t think I was good.
However, a girl who was participating with me said I looked “cool,” which made me happy.
Above all, it was fun.

Three months after the workshop, I started attending dance lessons.
I live in the countryside and there are no studios nearby, so I travel three hours each way.

I went to several trial lessons, and every time, all the teachers asked, “Are you really a beginner?” They might have been flattering me a little, but I had at least an average sense of rhythm, and I felt that my body moved better than I had expected.
It seems that what flowed at the core of my body hadn't changed since that day at zero years old when I danced to Madonna.

Without the goal of showing anyone, I practice the basics at home almost every night.
Since it’s too far to go every week without fail, I have videos sent to me for the days I can’t make it, so I can learn them and attend the lessons.
The teacher is kind and always nonchalant, and the atmosphere of the lessons is very good. On the other hand, there is almost no pointing out of bad points, which actually made me anxious, thinking, “I’m a beginner who just started, so there’s no way I’m doing this well; is this really okay?”
When I was able to get someone to film me dancing, I would watch the video over and over, write down every movement I thought looked lame on paper, and correct them at home.

I have always been dexterous and quick to learn, so in creative fields like arts and crafts, figure sculpting, and video editing, whenever I decided I wanted to try something new, I could quickly shape it to my liking to a certain degree.
With dance, I couldn't dance the way I wanted at all.
In over 30 years, this might have been the first time I seriously faced something and put in the effort on my own. That the first thing I poured this much passion into would turn out to be exercise is unbelievable. Even now, when I think about it, I find it hard to believe.

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365 days after that workshop, I stood on stage.

It wasn't a competition to test skill. Since it was a studio recital, there was no criticism and no pressure. It was just a place to showcase the results.
Even so, I was serious. During practice and during the actual performance, I was serious the whole time.
Because I love dance. Because I love music. Because I wanted to get better.

The moment I stood on the stage for the performance, the teacher's comment, 'There are some people with little experience, but I want you to see how much they can learn to dance even in a short period,' was read aloud, and the music started playing.
I ended up starting to dance while crying.

On this day, I had the feeling that 'something had clearly changed' within me.
For over 30 years, I lived believing that I was 'bad at and hated' exercise. However, at the very least, I didn't 'hate' it. Thinking that I might have lived for a long time without being able to understand myself, I felt a sense of regret and sadness, as if I had done something irreparable.
At the same time, I was glad that I realized it, even if it was late.

I have some thoughts now.
Many people struggle and feel anxious when they hit the problem of 'not knowing what they want to do' when they are young. But I think it's okay not to know. Or rather, aren't there more people who don't know? No, it even seems natural not to know.
I think people who find what they really want to do or what they love in their teens or early twenties are lucky.

You don't have to be pessimistic or anxious if you don't know the direction you want to aim for. It's fine to just keep your antenna up and do what you can for now.
As you live like that, I want you to always keep the power stored up to move without hesitation when the day comes that you are driven by the urge to 'try something'.

After going through employment, resignation, marriage, depression, and starting my own business, and now that I'm over 30 and have even become accustomed to 'playing it safe,' I never imagined I would rediscover a new side of myself.
With my own real-life experience, I want to tell young people that 'things like this can happen too'.