"Choose with your heart": a long interview with IDC's founder

We are used to seeing Kateryna Badikova as the founder of Irpin Dance Centre — someone building a studio, a team and big plans. But behind that lies a dance story of her own: a music school in the small town of Tokmak, ballroom dancing in Dnipro, the Ukrainian championship — and a choice she still thinks about. We talked to Kateryna not about the studio but about herself. What emerged was a conversation about a dream that never let go — and about why IDC teaches children to choose with their hearts.

Childhood: Tokmak

— How old were you when you first walked into a dance studio?

— Five. I was starting first grade at school — and at the same time I was taken to dance classes. It was a music school in the small town of Tokmak in the Zaporizhzhia region, and it had a choreography class: ballet, classical choreography, gymnastics, music theory, piano. They took children from six, and I wanted it so much that I counted the days to my sixth birthday. My parents backed me.

At seven in the morning I walked across the whole town to the music school on my own, had classes until noon, ate lunch at my mother's workplace, swapped my rucksack — and went off to ordinary school. And in the evening, homework for both. I was six, and I had nothing to compare it with. I thought it was all fine. I loved it.

— What from that school do you recognise in your own studio today?

— All-round development. When you have tried many things it is easier to find yourself: you already know what you like and what you don't. And even the things you "don't like" build discipline — an understanding that there is "I want to" and there is "I have to". And at six we were already taught to create: we chose the music ourselves, invented a story, staged our first piece of choreography — and defended it before a panel of teachers. It was very difficult. And very interesting.

— On the "About us" page there is a line of yours: the pictures of your dance childhood are "not very bright". What pictures lie behind it?

— There are many. And they all come from my teenage years, after our family moved to Dnipro. The walk to the studio through a dangerous neighbourhood — I would get off the minibus, lower my head and almost run. A studio that was not even a studio but an unheated university foyer: half-broken windows and a parquet floor literally coming apart into slats. And the gym of an ordinary school where we trained for three years without a single mirror — and for a dancer that is like being without air.

But we ran to training all the same. Our coach was devoted to what she did and held us so well that all we saw was the goal — the next tournament, like a lighthouse — not any of those shortcomings. I had one rule back then: however far the school is, however little money there is, I will keep going there regardless.

— Was there a moment when dance could have ended for good?

— Yes, and not by my choice. As a teenager I was diagnosed with a heart defect and banned from any physical exertion. It was very painful, because dance was everything — it was my life. I could not imagine what else to do. That period lasted several years: it was managed without surgery, and over time the doctors lifted the ban. I went back to dance.

Ballroom: tears at a tournament

— How did ballroom dancing come about?

— By chance — and for good. We had moved to Dnipro by then. Relatives came to visit — their son did ballroom dancing — and invited us to watch a competition. I was about nine. I watched it in wonder: children my age dancing ten dances in couples, the ballroom programme in beautiful gowns, the Latin programme completely different, and both of them incredible. And about an hour later I started crying great big tears. My mother could not understand what had happened. And I was crying because I had realised: I had been doing the wrong kind of dance. This is what I want to do.

That is how I ended up at the school that ran that tournament. Although I had to wait almost another year for the doctors' permission. And then a completely new era began — a conscious one this time. At six you simply want to dance; at nine or ten you know exactly what sets you alight.

— Give us the hard facts: clubs, coaches, results.

— I started at Harmoniya, then came Renesans, and then I moved to Olena Yezhova's school — and that was the best period of my dance career. Simply a quantum leap: every success and award I have came from there. At first I danced both standard and Latin; in my final years, Latin only. I reached B class. My most precious win was first place at the Ukrainian championship in Latin: a long-awaited victory, and before it a great deal of "just taking part" and working on myself.

— They say a ballroom partnership is almost a marriage.

— This is a very painful subject. Partners are in short supply, and you do not get to pick "on personal qualities" from a choice of ten. For several years I danced with no partner at all — years of stagnation, when you simply come to the studio because you love dancing. Then came a beginner partner: to form a couple with him I had to drop back several levels. And with my last partner it was not about marriage but about compromises for the sake of a shared goal. Finding someone who matches you both in level of training and in personal qualities is a huge, huge piece of luck. Sadly, not everyone gets it.

— Which defeat taught you more than a victory?

— In ballroom the system itself teaches you. At a serious tournament, getting from the first heat into the semi-final is already an achievement: a judge may simply not see your best choreography, because you are dancing at the other end of the floor at the same time as everyone else. And if you make the final, you have to dance five dances back to back. When you finish the jive, the fifth dance, on your last reserves — you cannot lift your legs any more. And you go back to the studio and carry on working. After every tournament you come back a different person.

First place was never an end in itself. It is a competition with yourself: at the next tournament I will definitely be better than at the last one. (The same words — "I compete only with myself" — are said today by seven-year-old IDC student Liza. Nobody prompted her.)

A different road — and coming back

— Why did your competitive career end?

— I grew up, and I had to make grown-up decisions. I finished university, worked at a large company — and decided to go abroad to study. And just as all the documents were ready, I was offered a partnership with a very strong partner, to prepare for Blackpool. Blackpool was the dream of my whole life back then. But I had to choose, and I made the choice against dance.

— Do you regret it?

— Honestly, often. I chose with the rational part of me while my heart wanted to dance, and the doubts followed me for years afterwards. It is just that at the time a dancer's profession did not look like it had a future — there were no examples of successful dancers in front of me. It was only later that "Dancing with the Stars" and all those shows appeared and showed that dance can be a proper profession. So to a girl standing at the same crossroads today, I would say what nobody said to me then: choose with your heart. There are far more opportunities now — teaching, the stage, show ballets, commercial work. And to her parents: support and guide her. If the desire is genuine, the success will be ten times over.

— You went into engineering, then business education and marketing. Did dance help?

— I always chose creative fields, and marketing involves a lot of creativity too. I think the thinking and the approaches from dance were working there subconsciously as well. And the business education later helped enormously in building the studio: seeing it from both sides — as a teacher, when I am with a group, and as an owner, when you are choosing a team and setting up processes. The hardest part was learning to switch between those roles.

— How did you come back to dance?

— After five difficult years of maternity leave. I needed to start doing something I love — something for myself. In 2020 I put together a small group of adult women in Vorzel: five people, bachata and salsa. For me it was psychological rehabilitation — coming back to myself through dance. And then everything took off: one group grew into several, morning classes were added, and at some point that studio ran out of space and hours.

— What turned out to be hardest in the shift from "I can dance" to "I can teach"?

— Stepping away from the professional system. I was taught to control every cell of my body: where a movement comes from, how the breath connects, which muscle to engage and which to release. At first I tried to pass that on to people who had simply come to do something for themselves — they found it interesting to listen to, but physically impossible to do. So I began developing my own approaches: how to adapt that knowledge so that a person is dancing quickly, and loving it. And you know what? When you teach, you learn even more yourself.

— Who was your model of a teacher? And your anti-model?

— My model is Olena Yezhova, with whom I danced through to my main results. Someone devoted to what she does: she has dancers with first places at Blackpool, and she can get any child dancing, whatever they arrive with. She still inspires me.

My anti-model is one of the studios I trained at as a child. It was pure business there: it did not matter what ability or desire you had — what mattered was what your parents did for a living and whether they could hand over a large sum. Partners there were treated like goods: an established couple could be broken up if someone paid more for another girl. A teacher who sees money in children is definitely not healthy upbringing. So today there are two things I will not accept in a teacher: someone pursuing goals other than the child's development, and someone asserting themselves at beginners' expense. Children sense it instantly.

— You worked a lot with adults. What brings someone into a studio at 30, 40, 50?

— Desire. Often a childhood one: there was no studio nearby back then, no money, their parents never took them. In adulthood it is easier to make it happen but harder to find the time. What gets in the way are the voices in your head: "I'm like a lump of wood", "the others are better at it", "I look ridiculous". A great many people with a strong desire never make it to the studio because of those voices.

— Tell us about the student you think of most often.

— One woman in my adult groups worked two or three jobs and was raising a child on her own — genuine survival mode. But she found time for her hobby. In the studio she was herself: she blossomed before our eyes, with every class. When we moved into a big studio with windows onto the street, it turned out that a man had been coming to watch her dance. It took him a long time to work up the courage. Then he introduced himself. Now they are married with a child. Through dance she opened up — and that spark lit up the person she went on to share her life with. I always think of that story.

— Why is IDC today primarily about children?

— After the full-scale invasion we shifted our direction to all-round children's development — that is our main focus. And social dance for adults is also a question of hands: teachers from Kyiv are not willing to travel for the sake of one or two groups. Whether we bring it back, time will tell. For adults we currently have morning classes, and I know how much they give — I came back to life through a group just like that myself.

A second child

— What did your family say when you announced "I'm opening a studio"?

— The family was split. My husband Tymofii backed it immediately — he could see the fire in my eyes and how therapeutic it was for me to come back to something I love. In fact it was he who suggested opening a studio. My ambitions were for a small studio space, and he said: no, we're opening a big school. My parents and those closest to us said we were mad to take that kind of risk, opening a 250-square-metre school in Irpin. I was frightened; I could not see my own potential then. So I am very grateful to my husband: he is a visionary who sees several years ahead — and who knows how to back you all the way.

— What do you pay for the studio with?

— Time. All our free time is the studio and its development. But the whole family lives it: our son Mykyta watches every broadcast of the performances and roots for our children exactly as we do. Dancing myself, sadly, is not happening at the moment — and I feel that part of the joy left along with the dancing. I need to bring dance back.

— How do you measure whether it was all right?

— By our children's eyes. When they are on fire about what they do, when they run to training, when things work out for them — and they are supported in it. Perhaps there is a lot in this of what was missing from my own childhood: when I see these children, it is as if I am putting right what I did not have. I want them to have a happy childhood despite everything going on around them. And for each of them to have not just the next medal but a big dream.

— Who do you feel you are first of all: a dancer, an entrepreneur, a mother?

— A mother, I suppose. And I always say I have two children — my son and the dance centre. I want Mykyta, when he is thirty, to remember that we were doing something worthwhile. That we made a lot of children happy. And that one day he will see a performer on a big stage and say: "Oh, that's the girl who used to train at my parents' studio."

"I didn't have the courage back then, because there were no examples of successful dancers. Now those examples are growing up in our studios." If your child is standing at their own crossroads, start with a trial class (UAH 300): look at the teachers, at the studios and at the way eyes light up. And if it is you standing at the crossroads, we have morning classes for adults: Kateryna knows exactly where coming back to yourself begins.