Taking the Lead: Lessons From a Life in Motion (17 page)

Ricki took a deep breath. “I hate looking in the mirror,” she admitted. I knew a little bit of her history—she’d lost more than a hundred pounds since she was the star of
Hairspray
, and she wanted to tone up now after having her second child. “These,” she said, pointing to the backs of her arms. “We need to get rid of these right away.”

She spent a lot of the first lesson apologizing for “not being Nicole Scherzinger.” No matter how much I told her that it didn’t matter if she had a Pussycat Dolls body and that she should be proud of who she was, it didn’t seem to sink in.

“Check your posture in the mirror,” I instructed her. Once again, the hat got pulled down as low as it would go, and all she could manage was a quick glance. “Ugh, my hips look huge!” she groaned and looked away.

Lucky for us both, I knew this fear of the mirror firsthand. As a teenager, I had terrible acne—huge boils on my face—and I avoided mirrors like the plague. But in dance, you need the mirror to help make corrections—in that respect, it’s your best friend. I had learned that, and Ricki needed to, also. The studio was wall-to-wall mirrors from floor to ceiling, so there was no avoiding them. She had to get over this fear fast or we wouldn’t be able to work, much less win.

We struck a few poses for the Viennese waltz and I told her, “Look! Look at that! See how beautiful you look?” She glanced in the mirror and her eyes lit up: “Is that me?” Over the next few weeks, the hat came off, her posture started to change, and an air of confidence took hold. By week 2, for our jive, she was gyrating around onstage in a skimpy sequin costume. We danced to “Hey Ya!” by Outkast and, as the song says, she shook it “like a Polaroid picture.” It was an incredible transformation, both physical and mental. The confidence that she portrayed became genuine.

Ricki was a great reminder for me of how you should always tackle fear head-on. You have to put yourself in an environment or a situation where you have no choice but to overcome it—or it will overcome you. Growing up I was afraid of heights; if I looked down I got instantly queasy. So what did I decide to do a few years ago? Go skydiving with my sisters. I stood on the ground, waiting for my turn, watching them jump out of a small plane strapped to some dude’s back. All I could see were these tiny blond dots floating in the air. Then one of the instructors (thankfully he was on his own and not tied to a Hough!) lost control of his chute. It got twisted and he began to spiral toward the ground. Everyone watching below gasped; he was plunging to his death. At the very last second, he pulled his auxiliary chute and glided down to safety.

After landing, he walked right over to me. “Phew, that was a close one. Okay, Derek, you’re up next. You’re comin’ with me.”

I felt my stomach leap into my throat. Are you serious? You’re a dead man walking and you want me to go up with you? Then reason kicked in: What was the likelihood lightning would strike twice and his chute would fail again? And if it did, clearly the guy knew how to get out of trouble.

“Um, okay . . . I guess.” I read the disclaimer and signed it. In a nutshell, it said, “If you die, we’re not responsible.” Thanks a lot.

The plane climbed to twelve thousand feet and I stood on the edge of the open latch. The scary part is never the actual jump. It’s the moment right before it, when you’re counting down: “3, 2, 1 . . .” It’s the anticipation of taking the plunge. That’s the slap in the face. That’s the moment your eyes are wide open and nothing else matters but the here and now. As you fall through the sky, the cold air slices into your skin and you can hear it rushing past you, louder than a train on its tracks. The world below looks so small, so insignificant, and then the chute opens and you feel this incredible gratitude and relief. Your fall slows, and you’re floating effortlessly in the clouds. I think it’s a taste of what heaven must be like.

So I did it. There is a tremendous rush in defying your fears—staring them down and daring them to mess with you. These days, if something scares me, that’s reason enough for me to do it. I’m kind of a danger junkie. I love wakeboarding, skiing, scuba diving, jumping off cliffs. Many of my Instagrams show me jumping off stuff. My sisters are just as bad—Julianne especially. When we were kids, we’d go to Lake Powell, where there are these amazing red cliffs. I’d be peeking over the edge, trying to talk myself over the fear, and suddenly there would be this little body with blond hair flying through the air and breaking the water. My little sister always beat me to it and showed me up. People might call us reckless or careless, but I call it being alive. I understand now that nothing amazing is ever accomplished without fear. It’s a sign that you’re on the road to experiencing greatness.

But as a little boy, I didn’t see it that way. I was terrified of the water. It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim—I did all the water sports you can think of. It’s just that somewhere, in the back of my mind, was this fear that something lurking beneath the surface would suddenly drag me down. My uncle gets the credit for ingraining this fear in me. One time, on vacation at my grandparents’ houseboat, all the cousins were in the lake at night swimming, and I fell asleep in the hammock. He thought it would be hilarious to toss me into the lake and give me a wake-up call. So he scooped me up and hurled me into the deepest part of the lake. When I hit the water it was pitch black and icy cold. I remember screaming because I had no idea where I was or what was going on. My only thought was to kick as hard as I could and reach the surface. I scrambled to the dock, terrified and coughing up water. It was a memory that stuck with me for a long, long time.

Fast-forward about twenty years: I was in Bora Bora on vacation. I was scuba diving, and thirty or so lemon sharks started hovering around me in the water. My first thought was, Wow, this is a lot more terrifying up close and personal than it is on Discovery Channel Shark Week. My next thought was, What do I do? I know the name
lemon shark
sounds sweet, but look it up. They are the ugliest, most terrifying sharks, and they get up to about ten feet long. That’s big enough to take off your head in a single bite. I hadn’t signed up for a shark encounter. In fact, they didn’t tell us much about what to expect down there, and there was no training session. It was more like, “Are you certified? Okay, just jump in.” After several minutes of being stalked by this pack of predators, I was overcome by a calmness. I remember feeling the sharks brush past my head and knock into my back. I couldn’t keep my eye on all of them—they were everywhere—so I just let it be. They didn’t bother me, and I didn’t bother them. Instead, the thing that freaked me out on the dive was a harmless little suckerfish that decided to hang out in my face. Every time I turned around, he was there, stalking me.

Sometimes the anticipation of something is scarier than the actual happening. I remember being in a cab in New York City with a friend when I was young and competing. We were playing this game: I’d look out the window and he’d slap my thigh as hard as he could. The pain wasn’t so bad, but the anticipation was unbearable. That’s fear for me most of the time. I picture the worst-case scenario unfolding and I wait for that slap to come. Why do I do it? Maybe to protect myself. It’s like when you cross your fingers to ward off a jinx. If I think of the worst that could happen, it won’t happen. It’s some warped insurance policy.

As I grow older, I realize that as adults, our fears are often self-inflicted. If you ask me what scares me today, it’s something far less tangible than a hungry shark or a failed parachute. It’s the idea that the best is already behind me. That I’ve peaked, plateaued, and I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to excite or challenge me. It’s a variation on an old fear: that I’ve never been good enough, and I never will be. I know these fears aren’t real—the things that scare us seldom are. They exist only in our undirected imagination, and they express things we love and cherish and can’t bear to lose. But we also have to remind ourselves that fear is an emotion, and emotions can be controlled. Kellie Pickler admitted to me that she was her own worst enemy. She had a laundry list of things she was worried about, among them failing, falling, and just in general making a fool out of herself. I said, “‘Let’s step back and name this nervous person—because she’s not the real you. We’ll call her Anxious Annie. You’re Kellie and she’s Annie.’ ” Once Kellie named Anxious Annie and called her out, she could separate from her. The next day—and I mean the very next day—Kellie had a true transformation. She identified and broke up with her own worst enemy and was way better for it. We all have insecurities. The trick is to stop asking why and instead ask, What can I do about it?

I remember as a kid seeing all these people riding a towering, loop-de-loop roller coaster that I was terrified to try. I just stood there, watching it race around the track at a million miles an hour. I was in an emotional tug-of-war: part of me wanted so badly to just jump on and try it, but the other part of me was paralyzed by fear of the unknown. What if it made me sick? What if I was so terrified, I embarrassed myself? What if the seat belt gave way and I plummeted to my death? The list went on and on and got gradually longer in my overactive imagination. People would get on and get off—unscathed and exhilarated. So I reasoned with myself, I’m sure all those people are scared, too. But they’re not letting it keep them from going on the ride. Just like that, I got on. I screamed my head off, then went back for a second ride—this time, no hands.

LEADING LESSONS

Use your fears; don’t let them direct or define you
.

Fear sends your brain a message that it’s time to make a decision—like when I decided I would ride that coaster. You can also decide to do nothing; you can stand watching the world zip by from the sidelines. I choose to see my fears as a green light. They mean go, not stop, and you’re always in the driver’s seat. Don’t give fear any more power than it already has. As I said, I was often afraid of failure. But instead of letting the fear keep me from reaching my goals, I let it propel me. In the movie
After Earth
, Will Smith’s character states that fear is simply made up by our own imaginations. “Danger is real, but fear is a choice.” Who knew Will was such a gifted philosopher? I agree 100 percent. Why is one person afraid of something and another other person isn’t? We’re all humans, but we’ve all had different experiences and therefore we have different associations. It’s personal. The possibility of freedom exists wherever fear lies. When you realize that it’s you who is creating this fear, the fear loses its ability to control you.

Break it down
.

What are you really afraid of? Is it the water or is it not being able to breathe? Is it sitting in the dentist chair or not being in control of a situation? Analyze it and get to the place where you can see what’s really haunting you and holding you back. I find that fears are not as big and powerful as we make them out to be. They’re just made up of many thoughts that have woven together. Unravel them, pick them apart, tackle them one by one. It’s like breaking down a wall, brick by brick.

The only thing certain in life is uncertainty
.

When you’re fearful of the unknown, what you’re really unsure of is your ability to create your own life. Replace that fear with curiosity: What success or great outcome could come from this? What can I learn about myself that will help me reach my goals? Every one of my
DWTS
partners was worried about that first performance in front of the camera. I worried a few of them might even quit before they ever had a chance to perform. But once you hit that stage, it becomes crystal clear. The fear has nothing to do with the reality of that dance. It comes from not knowing what the experience will be like. Once you feel it and live it, that crippling fear vanishes. But you have to trust yourself: you have to take that first step.

REFLECTING ON DEREK

“I’ve been in this business for twenty-seven years now, and I hold Derek Hough right up there among the most talented people I have ever worked with or known. He is a visionary. I look back on my
DWTS
experience with him and I am so grateful and proud. I got to learn from the best, and he managed to get the best out of me.”

—RICKI LAKE

NOBODY’S PERFECT

E
VEN AT MY
highest level of competing, I was never good enough. I was always finding the smallest details to fix. No one was harder on me (or my partners) than I was on myself. No matter how any of my coaches or fellow competitors tried to pat me on the back and tell me I did a good job, “good” was never good enough. The idea of perfection became an obsession—like a surfer trying to catch the perfect wave, I was always trying to find the perfect connection with my partner. I was in absolute terror on competition days—super intense and hypercritical. I was so on edge, you couldn’t talk to me backstage. I remember once, I was furious with myself, and I blamed it on my shoes not fitting right. I took them off and hurled them across the floor, narrowly missing Shirley’s head. Another time, I was so aggravated and upset with how the dance was going, I jolted my partner’s arm during a paso doble and dislocated it. The pursuit of perfection was always my biggest downfall in all the competitions; it always crept in. I would basically start to self-destruct and want to stop and start all over. During practice that’s acceptable because you have time to mess up, critique yourself, and improve. In a competition, there is no stopping. If it’s a little messy, you have to carry on. That was so hard for me to do. It chipped away at my self-esteem. I would come off the floor and I’d be all upset and mad, and Shirley would have to talk me down off the ledge. “It looks a lot better than it feels,” she’d tell me. That would make me feel better—for a moment. But I’d do the same thing again the next time.

Most of the time, I couldn’t even articulate what I was striving for. It wasn’t just frame or footwork—it was the steps you don’t really see. The perfect balance of push and pull and tension. The weight of your body over your foot; the way your hips move through your center and move your partner simultaneously. The obsession was not what it looked like, but what it
felt
like. And because I was the one experiencing that feeling, I set the bar. No one could tell me otherwise.