When a Teacher, Mentor, or Friend Dies: Holding Grief in Creative Communities

Patti Broadfoot
Jun 18
3 min read

An empty stage dimly lit by soft overhead lights. The floor is bare, evoking quiet reflection and the absence of someone deeply missed.

How do you grieve a teacher? A mentor? A colleague who lit up every space they entered?

Sometimes the people who shape us most aren’t the ones in the spotlight — but the ones who saw us fully, stood beside us, believed in us, and challenged us with care. When someone like that dies, the grief runs deep — and it touches everyone differently: students, friends, fellow artists, entire communities.

This week, I’ve been sitting in that grief. And I know I’m not alone.

To many of you, he was your teacher. Maybe the one who made you feel seen in a crowded class. Maybe the one who helped you believe in yourself again after a tough season. To me, Jody was a fellow teacher and a friend — someone I always reconnected with when he was local to where I was, even after I stepped away from teaching. Kind, insightful, and full of quiet energy that made the room feel better just by being in it.

For His Students: Your Grief Is Real

If Jody ever taught you, judged your routine at competition, or simply exchanged a kind word in the hallway — then you know. He made the studio and the competition world feel like a place you belonged. Like you mattered.

He didn’t just correct technique. He helped people feel safe. Encouraged. Seen. And right now, the absence of that kind of presence can feel overwhelming.

You might feel sadness, shock, or confusion. You may notice a heaviness you can’t quite name. That’s grief. And you’re allowed to feel it — deeply.

Ways You Can Honour Him:

Dedicate your next piece, class, or rehearsal to him — even quietly, just for yourself.
Write about the moment he made you feel like you belonged. Keep that memory alive.
Share a story with others who knew him — especially the funny or meaningful ones.
Keep dancing. Even when it feels hard. Especially then.

For His Colleagues: The Weight We Carry Together

To those of us who worked beside Jody — who swapped stories, stood side by side at events, shared critiques or encouragement between classes — this grief carries layers.

I think often of a particular moment at Bedazzled finals. Jody was teaching a lyrical workshop, and I was nearing the end of my studio-owning days. While I was still teaching, I hadn’t taken a class in a long time. He asked if I was going to join the teachers' class, and I told him I’d be there — taking notes.

He smiled and said, “Why don’t you do the class?”

Over the next few days, he nudged me — kindly, steadily, and yes, with a bit of teasing — until I finally danced. Surrounded by younger dance teachers, I stepped back into movement. And in that class, I remembered who I was. Why I dance. Why I stayed in this world at all. It stirred something in me that I still carry.

That was Jody. He saw something in you and helped you find your way back to it.

Ways We Can Support Each Other:

Reach out. Even a short message — “Thinking of him today” — can mean everything.
Share stories, not just online, but in person — keep the memories alive.
Carry forward what he embodied: light, community, gentle encouragement.
Give yourself permission to feel off, distracted, or deeply sad. It’s okay.

Grief Lives in the Body, Too

In the arts, grief isn’t just mental — it’s physical. You might feel heavy. Foggy. Off balance. Your body remembers him too.

If you find yourself freezing mid-choreography or zoning out in a rehearsal, you’re not broken. You’re grieving. And sometimes, movement helps release what words cannot. Other times, stillness is just as important. Let both be okay.

Carrying the Legacy Forward

Jody’s legacy isn’t just in trophies or titles. It’s in the way he made people feel. The way he noticed the person behind the performance. The way he lifted people up without needing to be the loudest voice in the room.

We honour him when we: