Words: Mya I, Toronto
Ballet is often seen as the pinnacle of elegance and precision; a world of seamless lines, perfect turns, and unyielding discipline. Among its most iconic symbols is the pointe shoe, representing grace, strength, and artistic maturity. Yet for generations, this symbol has only told one story: a pale pink story. For dancers of colour, that story has never truly fit, both literally and symbolically.
What is often dismissed as “just a colour” holds much deeper meaning. Traditionally, pointe shoes were crafted to match the skin tones of white dancers. The pale pink satin was meant to create the illusion of continuity, from leg straight through to the tips of the toes, so that dancers appeared to float effortlessly across the stage. But for dancers with darker skin, pink shoes disrupted that illusion. Instead of disappearing, the shoes stood out, unintentionally highlighting the dancer as "different."
A personal beginning
I began dancing when I was just two and a half years old. Like most young dancers, I was outfitted in pink tights, pink slippers, and later, pink pointe shoes. I did not think to question it at the time, this was the standard. So like any child, I simply wanted to belong. Though as I got older, more aware of my identity and the subtle ways in which dance intersected with race, I started to feel the friction between who I was and what ballet expected me to be.
I remember my excitement the first time I discovered skin-toned tights. It felt like something in ballet finally suited me. However, the thrill quickly faded when I realized my pointe shoes still clashed, bright pink against warm brown. Instead of feeling elegant, I felt exposed. The shoes became a visual reminder that I did not belong in the ballet world as it was designed.
Making it work - and the cost of doing so
At age 10, when I finally earned my first pair of pointe shoes, a rite of passage for any dancer, I felt immense pride. Unfortunately, that pride was quickly overshadowed by the pink satin screaming against my skin in the mirror. I felt like a pretender, forced to squeeze into a mold not made for me.
At 13, I learned of the practice of “pancaking” - applying foundation or fabric paint to shoes to match skin tone. It felt like a small revolution. I could finally claim some ownership over my tools. Yet on the other hand, pancaking was time-consuming, messy, and imperfect. Foundation rubbed off on my tights, costumes, and hands. The finish looked dull and uneven, far from the clean, polished standard expected on stage. While pink shoes came performance-ready straight from the store, mine needed hours of preparation, and still looked second-rate.
It was not until I was 15 that I finally received a pair of pointe shoes in my skin tone, custom-ordered and months in the making. Even that victory came with caveats: local stores only stocked pale pink, so I had to wait four to six months every time I needed a new pair. To this day, I still need to plan my purchases far in advance, something white dancers rarely need to consider.
A system designed for exclusion
My story is not unique. It reflects a broader, systemic issue in ballet, a tradition that has long centered whiteness as the aesthetic ideal. Pointe shoes are just one example of how dancers of colour have been excluded from full participation in the art form.
Why is this the case? Classical ballet was born in the royal courts of 15th-century Italy and France and evolved under the influence of white European aristocracy. Its standards - slender frames, pale skin, delicate features - were shaped by and for white bodies. These ideals were institutionalized in ballet schools, companies, and products, reinforcing an unspoken but powerful message: to succeed in ballet, you must conform to its Eurocentric mold.
Even today, racial representation in ballet remains staggeringly low. For example, despite diversity initiatives within US ballet, for the 2019-2020 season Black dancers represented just 6.7% of all dancers in the top 25 ballet companies. Canadian ballet companies have also launched diversity initiatives after being called out for a lack of progress.
The real impact on young dancers
The impact on young dancers of colour is not just logistical, it is deeply emotional. The absence of products that match their bodies can leave them feeling unseen, unwanted, and excluded. Some dancers I have known have dropped out of ballet altogether because they never felt they truly belonged.
Canadian-born Siphe November, now a principal dancer with the National Ballet of Canada, has spoken about the isolation he felt as one of the only Black dancers in elite spaces. He described always having to "prove" himself and feeling like he had to work twice as hard to be seen as equal.
Signs of progress - and what comes next
Thankfully, things are beginning to change. Companies like Gaynor Minden , Freed of London , and Bloch with its tonal range now offer pointe shoes in a wider variety of shades. These are meaningful steps, yet many retailers still do not stock these shoes in store, and wait times for custom orders remain high.
To truly create an inclusive ballet world, we need to go further:
● Dancewear stores must carry diverse shades as a standard, not a specialty item.
● Ballet schools and companies should normalize skin-tone shoes and support dancers in wearing them.
● Financial support should be offered to offset the extra costs dancers of colour face.
● Education and training should explore ballet’s history and actively work to dismantle exclusionary norms.
● Pointe shoe brands must continue innovating for comfort, performance, and tone equity across the full spectrum of dancers.
The future of ballet belongs to all of us
When dancers feel seen and supported, they move differently not just with confidence, but with freedom. Inclusion is not just an ethical imperative, it’s a creative advantage.
Ballet gains richer stories, deeper artistry, and more authentic movement when it reflects the diversity of the world it exists in.
My skin-tone pointe shoes are more than footwear. They are a small yet powerful act of resistance. A quiet affirmation that I belong here, that we all do.
Mya is a Toronto-based participant in Youth Media Forward: meet the Toronto participants here