The performance is really over, but part of me still feels like I am standing on that stage.

I can still hear our dance shoes echoing through the theater. I can still picture the stage lights above us and the audience beyond the edge of the stage. Most of all, I remember the applause during the final curtain call—the moment when everything we had worked for finally felt real.

Before the performance began, I waited backstage with the other dancers. Through the curtain, I could hear the audience entering the theater and talking as they found their seats. Around me, everyone was checking their costumes, adjusting their shoes, and quietly reviewing the choreography. Although we had practiced the same steps countless times, I was still nervous.

When we were told to get ready, my heart started beating faster.

Then, the lights came on.

The music began, and I stepped onto the stage of the National Taichung Theater—a stage I had dreamed of performing on for a long time. At first, I focused only on the movements: step, jump, and turn. I listened carefully to the music and the rhythm of the other dancers’ shoes. I was afraid of making a mistake during the performance we had worked so hard to prepare.

After a while, I noticed familiar faces in the audience. Seeing them made me feel supported, and I slowly became more relaxed. Instead of worrying about every movement, I began to enjoy the music, the dance, and the feeling of truly being onstage.

For the first time that evening, I stopped thinking about what could go wrong and allowed myself to enjoy the moment.

Reaching that stage took much more than one evening of performing. It took countless rehearsals, repeating the same movements until our timing matched and trying again whenever something went wrong. Even when we were tired, we returned to our positions and continued practicing.

Preparing for the show also required courage outside the studio. Before the performance, my brother and I brought 150 posters to the National Taichung Theater and handed them out to strangers. The posters were light in my hands, but giving away the first one felt almost impossible.

I was afraid that people would ignore us or refuse to take one. Eventually, someone stopped and accepted a poster. That small moment gave me the courage to continue. One poster became another, and then another. With each one, I hoped that someone might become curious and come to see the performance we had spent so long preparing.

Sometimes, courage begins with something as small as handing one poster to a stranger.

The moment I remember most clearly is the final curtain call. When all the dancers returned to the stage, I looked out at the audience and saw many familiar faces. The theater was filled with applause.

At that moment, I remembered every rehearsal, every difficult movement, the nervous wait backstage, and every poster we had handed out. All those moments that had once seemed separate suddenly felt connected.

Our effort had been seen.

After the curtain came down, everyone gathered in the lobby. We hugged, took pictures, and shared the happiness of finally completing the performance. I was proud and relieved, but I also found it difficult to believe that it was already over.

For months, the show had been something in the future—something we were always practicing for and looking forward to. Suddenly, it had become a memory.

Ten years ago, I was the child who hid in the corner and was too afraid to join the other dancers. Now, I have performed in front of an audience on one of the most important stages in my city.

My growth did not happen in one moment. It came from every rehearsal, every mistake, and every time I chose to continue even when I felt nervous. Irish dance did not make all my fear disappear. Instead, it taught me how to take the next step while carrying that fear with me.

The girl who once hid in the corner had finally found the courage to step into the light.

The curtain call marked the end of this performance, but not the end of my journey. The lights may have gone down, but every step, heartbeat, and moment of applause will remain part of a memory I will carry with me for a long time.