I was sad.

It was the night of the winter formal. All the girls in my hall were running door-to-door looking at each others’ dresses, giving compliments and advice on makeup. My three roommates had been busy trying out different outfits and hairdos four hours before the winter formal started. Our room floor was scattered with heels, headdress flowers and colorful nail polish bottles.

The sweet scents perfume flooded the hallway. It was a lovely picture on a mid-November night.

And yet, I was sad. I turned down my roommates’ suggestion of going to winter formal for the third time. I decided not to go because I did not know how to dance, and I was afraid of being embarrassed.

In the Asian culture, I am taught to behave properly in every occasion, and I never attempt anything if I don’t have control over it. Since arriving to the United States, two years ago, I’ve been observing and trying to learn the American way of life so I would fit in. This winter formal was on my list of things to master, too. But while my roommates were crossing the days off on the calendar, looking forward to the this night, I had been hoping it would never come.

That was not like me. I was usually active in all hall events such as the tie-dying party, pumpkin patch and “big sis, lil sis” sleepover. However, this formal was different. After watching some 19th century European love movies, I was filled with the preconception that in the formal, girls would be dressed up like princesses and circle in the ballroom. I was ashamed of my dancing skills. I was afraid I’d step on someone in the ballroom or do something inappropriate. I had wanted to go to the formal from the beginning, but like any other girl, I wanted to look my best, and I was afraid I would embarrass myself. This struggling feeling almost swallowed me, and I found it hard to breathe.

“Vicky, you sure you don’t want to go?” Lauren asked.

“No, I guess not. I have homework to do,” I said. It was obviously a lie—my fading voice gave it away.

I tried to pretend that I really had homework to focus on. I kept checking my mailbox, I kept refreshing Blackboard, and I kept my head low so people did not see the sad look on my face. No mail, no updates. I started calling people on my phone to avoid hearing my roommates’ conversation on makeup. No one picked up. I even tried to organize my closet to pretend I was busy. But I just could not help looking at my roommates’ pretty dresses and imagining how beautiful they would be on me.

And then an hour before the formal, I decided to go. I had to go. My decision was not just about dancing; it was about daring the challenge of something unknown.

I walked in to the room and told them I was going.

After a minute of silence, the entire room burst into a cheer. Lauren danced with a curler still on her hair. She was cheering because room 209 could go together. I was cheering because finally I was being true to myself.

The night was a fun blur. I met a Mongolian guy named Ider, who taught me how to do the traditional Mongolian dance. I was a little bit nervous at the beginning, but by the third song, Ider and I were in the spotlight. I couldn’t follow his steps exactly, and it was probably my clumsy movements that caught the attention of the crowd, but I threw myself into the music. I knew stepping out of the comfort zone might be difficult at first, but the courage would somehow be rewarded.

In my first reporting class on year later, my journalism professor, Scott Reinardy, said if we wanted to be reporters, we’d have to go out and talk to people. It sounded simple, but it was hard starting a conversation with a stranger, especially for me, whose native language is not English. But every time I was nervous knocking on the door of a city manager or calling someone I did not know for an interview, I thought of that night. I knew exactly what a reporter should be equipped with—courage. Each time I summoned the nerve to talk to someone, I got great interviews.

I still can’t dance today, and I am on the edge of forgetting the Mongolian dance. But I remember that winter formal night, when I took, what was for me, a huge risk. That same courage has helped me with my academic goal—being a reporter, a storyteller who goes out of her comfort zone in search of the unknown.