At 39 years old, with just over 100 total hours of ballet training under my belt, I have a confession to make.

I want to take the RAD Solo Seal.

There. I’ve said it!.

If you know anything about the Royal Academy of Dance’s highest vocational award, you’ll probably have one of two reactions. Either: What an inspiring ambition! Or: Has she completely lost the plot?

Honestly, I ask myself the same question.

Because the Solo Seal isn’t just another exam. It’s notoriously demanding. Candidates perform three solos that test artistry, musicality, technical precision and stamina. Most people who take it have spent years — often decades — training seriously. Many are teenagers or young adults preparing for professional careers.

And then there’s me.

A beginner.

One hundred hours of ballet.

A body that’s edging towards 40 rather than 20.

No childhood training. No naturally sky-high extensions. No secret history of dancing at all in my youth. Just an adult who wandered into a ballet studio, fell head over heels in love with the art form, and now finds herself entertaining a goal that seems absurdly ambitious.

So… am I mad?

Possibly.

But maybe madness isn’t always a bad thing.

When I first started ballet, I wasn’t thinking ten years ahead. I wasn’t thinking about exams at all. I was simply captivated. I loved the combination of athleticism and artistry, the endless depth of the technique, and the humbling experience of being terrible at something and wanting to improve anyway.

Adult beginners are often told, implicitly or explicitly, to manage their expectations.

“You’re too old to dance professionally.”

“Your turnout will never be perfect.”

“You probably won’t get your splits.”

“Your feet aren’t ideal.”

“Your body won’t adapt the way a child’s would.”

And you know what? Most of those things are true. But ballet isn’t only about what you can achieve. It’s about what you’re willing to devote yourself to.

The older I get, the more I think ambition is deeply misunderstood. We tend to assume that goals are only worthwhile if they’re realistic and achievable. But some goals are valuable precisely because they ask more of us than we think we can give.

I don’t know whether I’ll ever take the Solo Seal. I certainly don’t know whether I’d pass. At the moment, I don’t even know whether my body will tolerate the years of training that would be required. As mentioned before, I’ve had a niggling pain in my knee in the past (which has actually gone), and I currently have pain where my leg meets my pelvis on the left side. Recently, I’ve been having pain in my right foot. Ballet is demanding enough at 16; at 39, recovery times are longer, niggles appear more often, and progress can be frustratingly non-linear. There are days when I feel ancient.

I’ll watch a 14-year-old execute flawless pirouettes and think, What exactly am I doing here? Then I’ll remember something important. I’m not competing with 14-year-olds. I’m competing with the version of myself who walked into her first ballet class, unable to remember fifth position. That woman would be amazed that I’m even contemplating the Solo Seal. And perhaps that’s the point. The goal itself is almost secondary.

Wanting to attempt something extraordinary changes how you approach the ordinary. Suddenly, every tendu matters. Every class matters. Strength training matters. Sleep matters. Consistency matters. A ridiculous goal can make you remarkably disciplined. Even if I never get there, pursuing the possibility would transform me. I also think there’s something quietly radical about adult beginners daring to dream big. We’re encouraged to take up hobbies for wellness, socialising or gentle self-improvement. Those are wonderful reasons, of course.

But what about obsession?

What about mastery?

What about striving for excellence simply because something moves you?

Why should children and young professionals have a monopoly on ambition?

At 39, I’m old enough to understand that failure isn’t fatal. If I train for years and discover that the Solo Seal is beyond me, my life won’t collapse. I’ll still have become stronger, more disciplined, more artistic and more resilient than I was before. That’s hardly failure. In fact, one of the great gifts of starting ballet as an adult is that ego matters less. I’m not trying to prove I’m talented.

I’m not building a career. I don’t need to be the best in the room (though that would be amazing!). To be honest, I just want to see how far I can go. And maybe that’s why this dream feels so precious. Children often pursue difficult things because adults expect them to. Adults pursue difficult things because they choose to. There’s a freedom in that. Of course, realism has its place. I’m not under any illusions. The Solo Seal represents years and years of work. I’d need excellent teachers, consistent training, careful conditioning and, frankly, a fair amount of luck. There will be physical limits. There will be setbacks. There will almost certainly be moments when I decide I’ve been completely delusional. I expect to have many conversations with myself beginning, “Be serious.” But I hope another voice always answers:

“Why?”

Why shouldn’t a 39-year-old beginner have an outrageous dream? Why shouldn’t she aim for the highest standard she can imagine? Why should the possibility of failure be more frightening than the certainty of never trying? I don’t know where this journey will end. Maybe in a studio, rehearsing variations for an exam I once thought impossible. Maybe somewhere far short of that. But already, ballet has given me more than I expected. It’s taught me patience. Humility. Persistence. The strange joy of incremental progress. It’s taught me that being a beginner at nearly 40 isn’t embarrassing. It’s brave.

So am I mad for wanting to take the RAD Solo Seal? Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. But I’ve started to suspect that the best ambitions are the ones that make sensible people raise an eyebrow. The ones that scare you. The ones that force you to grow. And if, years from now, I find myself stepping into a studio to perform those solos, I’ll know something important:

The maddest thing wasn’t dreaming that big. It would have been convincing myself I was too old to dream at all.

It would have been convincing myself I was too old to dream at all.