Taking the Lead: Lessons From a Life in Motion (5 page)

Purpose was never a problem for me. Dance began to consume my every waking thought—I was going to be the best, and I was impatient for that day to come. I was frustrated that there weren’t enough competitions locally to challenge Autumn and me. That’s when we started traveling. Attending dance competitions around the country was a huge step toward forging my independence and growing up. When I was younger, I had severe anxiety about sleeping outside of my home. I was such a homebody. A sleepover at my cousin’s house turned into a screaming, crying tantrum—I didn’t want to be away from my family. But gradually, those fears were overshadowed by the huge excitement of competing. I never stressed about going to some other city if there was a chance of taking home a first-prize trophy.

Autumn and I competed in about a dozen ballroom/Latin competitions—relatively small ones in Idaho and Utah, most of them hosted in school gymnasiums. I also participated in studio competitions where we went as a group from Center Stage. We traveled to Hawaii, L.A., and New York, and in the midst of the team competitions, I did solo competitions at the L.A. Underground and the New York City Dance Alliance. I won the junior regionals for NYC Dance Alliance in Utah, and I got invited to go to New York to compete at the Waldorf Astoria hotel.

My dad never held me back from going, but he was always afraid for all of his children that we would be let down or rejected. He didn’t want us to get our hopes up and be disappointed. Probably for that reason, he didn’t shower us with praise. Whatever I did, it was “Okay. You can do better.” I didn’t understand it at the time, but I see now that he wanted to protect us from being hurt. If he was tough or critical, it wasn’t that he was being mean. On some level, he wanted to buffer us from hearing it from someone else. He was trying to build us up. He didn’t want us going into the world blindly, thinking we were the best thing since sliced bread. He wanted to remind us that in order to achieve greatness, you have to be better than good—you have to be amazing. He set that standard for himself and for all of us. If you want something, you have to work your butt off for it.

So that’s what I did. I trained, I competed, I pushed myself a lot harder than any normal eleven-year-old. This did me no favors when it came to my social life. I knew my peers would see ballroom dancing as a strange hobby for a boy, so I tried to keep it quiet. This only alienated me more from my peers; now I was a loner with a secret life.

Things went from bad to worse. After my parents divorced (that’s a whole other story I’ll share with you later), we moved to an apartment complex in Orem that was walking distance from the studio. My first day at Orem Junior High, an older kid decided to pick on me. He tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned around he sucker punched me. My head snapped back and I fell to my knees.

“Come on!” he dared me. “Fight.”

I was lying there on the ground, blood gushing out of my nose. What had just happened? I cupped my hands over my face and they filled with blood. At this point, kids were gathering around to watch a fight go down. At that moment, I remembered something my mom told me: “Always fight back. Don’t just roll over and take it.” So I stood up and threw my blood in his face. It was enough to freak him out momentarily and distract him. Then I jumped on top of him and started pounding him with my fists. Some teachers pulled us apart and dragged me into the principal’s office. Even though I hadn’t started the fight, even though I was the one with blood pouring out of his nose, I wound up getting expelled from the school. I can’t say I was all that sorry. If that’s the price I had to pay for standing up for myself, then so be it. Hadn’t that been what my mother meant?

When the dust settled, my parents didn’t punish me. Most of the time, when I got into trouble with my mom or dad, I could talk my way out of it. I wish I could say that was the last time I got beaten up. A girl in my next junior high either liked me or was trying to make her boyfriend jealous by coming on to me. I was a red-blooded boy with raging hormones, so the attention felt pretty nice. Until her boyfriend and his friends jumped me one day in the track field behind the school. The boyfriend grabbed me around the throat and slammed me facedown on the ground. Two of his friends were holding my arms behind me.

“Dude, if I ever see you around my girl again, I’m going to beat the shit out of you!” Then he kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I tried to be cool about it and walk back with them toward the school. But eventually, I dropped back and ran home. I never looked back or returned to that school, either. I enrolled in another; there were about four in all between elementary and the end of junior high. I couldn’t connect to my peers, and I didn’t try to. While they worried about their midterm exams or rolling with the popular crowd, all I could think about was bigger and better dance competitions. That was where I belonged.

LEADING LESSONS

Let them see you sweat
.

That’s what dancing is about. That’s what life is about. Basically, you get out what you put in to any situation. If you’re lazy, cynical, negative—like that gas station mechanic—it’s going to show in anything you do. But if you focus, prepare, give 110 percent, you’re a winner no matter what the outcome. Any area of your life that you give attention to—career, relationships, health—will be better. I’m not saying that we should all go out there and become workaholics. I’m saying that you should commit yourself fully; give your whole self to the effort. You can’t blame others for your circumstances or your failures. When you ask yourself, “What am I prepared to do?” the answer should always be, “Whatever it takes.”

Assert yourself
.

When I was in junior high, asserting myself meant standing up to the kid who punched me in the face. As an adult, it means something different. It’s not being aggressive, argumentative, or combative. A leader is simply honest about what he or she needs, wants, and feels. This demonstrates self-confidence, self-respect, and dignity. Not being honest shows passiveness, fear, and insecurity. When someone puts you down or walks all over you, don’t lie there and act like a doormat. Stand up for yourself. And don’t expect people to read your mind. Being assertive requires communication—so it actually improves the quality of your relationships. I admit it: I’m guilty of being a people pleaser sometimes. I hate to disappoint, so I might do or say something that doesn’t feel true to me to make someone else happy. It’s a tough habit to break, but I’m practicing every day. You can be a nice person without compromising yourself. As a leader, you need to live your life on your own terms without asking people’s permission to do so.

Soak up every second of this life that is given to you
.

Put your hand on your heart and close your eyes. Maybe you’ve seen me do this on
DWTS
with my partners backstage before we go on. It calms the nerves and helps you connect to a place of gratitude. You didn’t earn your heart; you didn’t pay for it. It was given to you as a gift. So take advantage of it, enjoy it, and treat yourself the best way possible. A lot of us are just getting through or managing. Raise your standards. Grow, progress, push yourself, and in turn you will love yourself more. And when you love yourself more, you can love others.

REFLECTING ON DEREK

“Derek is one of the greatest individuals I’ve ever met, with one of the biggest hearts. When I worked with him, he taught me so much about stepping out of my comfort zone and learning to find confidence in a world that was so foreign. Coming from a professional gymnastics career, I was terrified of letting go and making myself vulnerable in a new art, but every time I did, he would say, “See, I told you you could do it.” He’s beyond talented, and I often describe him to people as a Mozart. He has a passion and a gift that are unparalleled, and it was a true honor getting to work with him. We started out as strangers, but I will forever be grateful to now call him a true friend.”

—SHAWN JOHNSON

REAL MEN

W
HEN I WAS
competing in San Francisco, my dad flew out to watch me. It was unusual for him; he was usually too busy with his work to come see me dance. I was happy to spot him in the audience, but I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach: something’s wrong. I put it out of my head until the competition was over. Back in our hotel room, I climbed into bed, ready to collapse from the whole exhausting day. It was late, after midnight, and the room was pitch dark. But it was eating away at me, so I had to ask.

“Dad?” I said hesistantly. “Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”

I’m not sure how I knew; I suppose I had sensed the tension between them for a while. Lately, my dad seemed so deflated. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong, but it felt like there was suddenly a crack in our family foundation. A little kid couldn’t see the reason behind it. Looking back, I have a better grasp on why it happened. My parents, over their more than twenty years together, had simply drifted apart. It happens in the best of relationships. People’s needs change and the gap between them widens. In my parents’ case, distance had a lot to do with it. Besides his work, my dad was the chairman of the Utah Republican Party for four years, and he was gone a lot. I remember only one argument between them, and it wasn’t even a big deal. They were simply on two different tracks, and eventually it took its toll.

There was a long silence before my father answered me. “You should ask your mother.” That was his way of affirming my suspicions without having to break the painful news. If it weren’t true, I told myself, he would have denied it. But I needed to hear it to believe it. It wasn’t real until someone said it was.

So right after we got home, I was in the car with my mother and I asked her. It was pouring, and the rain was coming down in sheets on the windshield.

“Mom, are you and Dad getting a divorce?” I asked.

She sighed and took a few minutes to respond. “Yes, probably. But we love you.”

And that was it. No further explanation or discussion. The words hung in the air. I tried to wrap my eleven-year-old brain around the truth but couldn’t. This wasn’t happening—not to us. In the Mormon culture, where family is such a strong unit and marriage is supposed to be eternal, for better and for worse, this made no sense to me.

At the next traffic light, I opened the door and jumped out of the car. My mother called after me but I pretended not to hear her. It was a very dramatic gesture, but drama was my middle name. It was the only way I knew how to express the emotions swirling around inside me. I just kept walking in the rain, unsure of where I was going but convinced I needed to run away. I was confused, sad, angry—a whole bunch of different feelings, none of them good. My mom let me cool off for a few minutes. Then she pulled up next to me and opened the car door, and I got back inside. I was soaked to the bone and made a huge puddle on the seat.

I don’t think I said a word the whole rest of the ride, and neither did she. In the following months, there was a separation period and a tense time when my parents tried to work out the details of the divorce. After my initial protest, a calmness came over me. I just wanted them both to be happy. I knew they couldn’t find happiness together anymore, and I thought it would be selfish of me to wish that they stayed together under those circumstances. My sisters were less forgiving and philosophical; they were very vocal about how upset they were. I tried to stay neutral, but it was hard. Up until this point, I had always been a mama’s boy. But gradually, it became my dad whom I empathized with and saw in a different light.

One day I was home, hanging out in my bedroom downstairs in the basement. My parents’ room was directly above mine, and I heard a strange, whimpering sound coming from it. I strained to make it out, then realized it was someone crying. My father.

I didn’t know what to do. I had never heard or seen my dad in tears. I could hear him now through the wall, a muffled cry, and it broke my heart. I had always thought of my father as indestructible, bulletproof. Superman had nothing on him. Yet now, he seemed so broken and fragile. Lying there in the dark, listening to him cry, terrified me. It was as if I had lost my concrete. But at the same time, I felt completely helpless; I wanted to run upstairs and throw my arms around him, but I knew it would embarrass him. My dad was always such a proud guy—strong and consistent in his beliefs, the backbone of our family. He would never have wanted me to see him in that condition.

Not that it would make me think any less of him. In fact, it had the opposite effect. From that day on, he seemed more real to me, more human. And when the time came to sell our house and move to an apartment complex in Orem, I chose to live with him over my mother. True, their apartments were adjacent, so I didn’t have far to go to visit my mom and sisters, but I felt a stronger connection to my dad. From the time he came to my competition in San Francisco, I had felt a shift in our relationship. He was more present, more thoughtful in small ways. I had always respected him, but I put him high on a pedestal. Now, he felt closer to earth, closer to me.

Of course, I gave him a terrible time at first. We all reacted to the divorce in different ways. My three older sisters were almost all grown up—Sharee was about to be married—so they needed our parents less in their day-to-day lives. Julianne was little, so I’m not sure how much she understood. I got it; I knew what it meant. I knew how people would talk around the neighborhood and in church, how they would look down on us with pity and disapproval. I would be one of “those” kids—the ones that came from a broken home. I decided I might as well live up to the role, so I began to cut school and skip dance class and hang around with a bad crowd. If my mom or dad scolded me, or a dance coach asked why I had missed rehearsal, I gave them all attitude. Wasn’t that what kids from broken homes did? Wasn’t it now my job to be a wise-ass screw-up? It became my new identity for several months until a couple of people finally talked some sense into me and reminded me who I really was.