Lessons Learned from Straight Knees and Pointed Toes

Straight knees and pointed toes are the hallmarks of ballet. There are biomechanical reasons for the extreme extension, but they're also symbolic. They represent the constant drive toward technical improvement and an unyielding desire to do the best we can. These are all lessons that apply to the pursuit of medicine.

Pointed toes and hyperextended knees are the hallmarks of ballet. They draw an endless line of energy and geometry, making even the simplest of movements beautiful. Straight knees and pointed toes are also symbols of the lessons we learn from ballet.

As a dancer, I was trained from my first class to point my toes every time they left the floor. It became instinctual. It had to be.

There are biomechanical reasons for straight knees and pointed toes — it engages the rest of the dancer's leg, making it feel easier to lift. The extra length provides a counterbalance for arabesques and extensions. For ballerinas, pointed toes in flat shoes build the strength and mobility eventually needed for pointe shoes, every little dancer's ethereal dream. In jumps, the force of extending through the hips, feet, and toes propels the dancer higher into the air. Pointed toes do have their movement benefits.

But straight knees and pointed toes are also symbolic. They're about the dancer's strive for perfection; a dancer can be attempting something incredibly difficult — something still beyond his reach, even. They'll still have purposefully straight knees and beautifully pointed toes. Which also feels counter-intuitive: why would someone spend any focus on such a small detail when they're learning a tricky skill for the first time?

The answer is in the question: pointed toes are a small detail. It's a full commitment to the movement. They're a symbol of doing the best that I can at any moment. If I can do nothing else in the combination, at least my knees were straight and my feet were pointed. Pointed toes (or flexed feet) give movement a purpose. Limbs with relaxed feet seem unfinished, as though their placement is accidental or by chance.

Medicine requires the same. Not necessarily the same aesthetic needs, but the same discipline. It requires the same commitment, the same constant striving for improvement and technical perfection. The same strength of will is needed to keep pushing through despite the fatigue of muscle or mind. And the same concept of the bare minimum: if I can do nothing else for the patient, there's always an effortful and purposeful minimum.

I've always loved ballet for its strength and its grace. Dance was the beginning of my journey. Understanding the science of ballet became my introduction to the world of medicine. My journey stemmed from the need to constantly learn more about the anatomy that made it all possible, the physics that dancers manipulate to make beautiful movement, and the physiology of adaptation that allows for constant improvement. Dance made me confident and curious, and every day I learned the traits I'd need to pursue that curiosity. The characteristics I developed from ballet will shape me into the practitioner I'll become.

The open soul of someone on stage is representative of an open and honest provider. A dancer's shoes and costuming are analogous to the symbolic white coat and the Rod of Asclepius; a clear sign of the status and the roles that come with it. And the straight knees and pointed toes are a symbol of training so intense it becomes automatic. A drive for constant improvement and perfection, and a commitment to the practice so complete that it defines who you become.