In this funny, honest solo episode, I unpack the slow-motion identity shift no one warned me about. I signed Maisie up for one cute toddler class at two and a half — the kind where they spin in circles, pick their nose, and cry because someone's standing on their spot. Four years on, I'm running a dance household: two kids in dance, three classes a week for Maisie (with a fourth on the table), a colour-coded calendar, and a browser history full of ballet bars.

I talk about the cost (the shoes, the tights that rip in three weeks, the costume fees, the concert week chaos), the language I don't speak ("what is a leg mount?"), my husband who keeps saying "babe, it's just dance," and the moment my six-year-old said "Mum, can I do contemporary too?" mid-mouthful of pasta. I get into the brutal beauty of dance week — the spacing rehearsal I still don't understand, hair tutorials at 11pm, stage makeup on a six-year-old, and the bobby pin I found in my bed.

And then I get to the bit I didn't expect: watching Maisie light up under the lights and crying her face off in the audience. A warm, witty love letter to every mum who looked up one day and went, hang on, when did this become my whole life?