Joy, disappointment and a Chicago celebrity dance off

Jackie Kostek is not a ballroom dancer. But for one night, she will be. And it's all for a good cause.

CHICAGO (CBS)-- I had just watched my dear friend dance her heart out when my general manager turned to me and said, "You'll do this next year." It wasn't so much a question but a statement of fact.

"Absolutely," I said, my heart pounding with possibility.

This was Dancing with Chicago Celebrities, an annual ballroom dance competition that doubles as a fundraiser for breast cancer research and organizations. Jill DeMarlo founded Arthur Murray Chicago in 2001 and after watching her mom battle breast cancer twice, founded Dancing with Chicago Celebrities as a way to do something for the cause. Over 18 years, the event has raised more than four million dollars for worthy recipients like Northwestern's Lurie Cancer Center and A Silver Lining Foundation.

Months passed with only the fleeting thought of hoisting the trophy, what it would feel like to transform into a sleek, tan, bejeweled ballroom dance star.

January hits, two months before the event. My GM walks by my desk. "Any word on dancing?," I ask. She fires off a text. "You're in!"

Within weeks, I am stepping into Arthur Murray for the first time. Immediately, I am struck by the warmth of the River North studio. What could be an intimidating prospect - diving into a new skill in your mid-thirties to then perform that skill under bright lights and in front of a big crowd - is not. Everyone radiates kindness.

I am paired with a professional dancer, Stephen Baker, whose effervescence is contagious. 

We sit down to talk dance. I did dance a bit growing up, I tell him. I was a figure skater and competitive cheerleader. I want a fast song, fun, I say. Also, I'm competitive. Stephen throws up his hands for a double high five. Someone who appreciates a high five as much as I do. It's a match.

We pop up to run through the basic steps of several dances, see which come most naturally to me. Salsa, cha cha, bachata - which I mistakenly call burrata more than once. West Coast swing, Argentine tango. Stephen leads. I follow.  "One two three, cha cha.' Our feet are moving, mirroring - when he steps forward, I step back. I'm turning without thinking about turning. It's the first time in a long time I'm doing anything without thinking.

On the walk home, I am floating. I cross the LaSalle Street bridge and glance at the water, shimmering, the skyscrapers lit from within. It's not that the city looks particularly pretty in the gray of January. It's that in this moment, the city is my mirror, reflecting back precisely what I feel - sparkling with potential.

The weeks pass quickly. With two practices a week, the faces in the studio become as familiar as the way my energy shifts when I dance. Whatever I bring into the studio, it's spun in and spit out as something totally different, always positive and energized. Like pieces of a puzzle, Stephen guides me through individual skills and sequences, eventually placing them beside each other to form a complete dance.

We are both enthusiastic and experimental, "okay, this might seem a little crazy but what if we…" During one session, we seriously consider throwing in a land axel from my figure skating days. Not entirely sure why I thought a jump I could barely land on ice at 16 would be feasible off ice, in heels, at 37. We even tested what it might look like for Stephen to give me a boost, a la pairs figure skating throw jumps. We axed it the following week.

Some 'crazy' ideas were winners. Like when I began obsessively studying videos from 'Dancing with the Stars' and decided I needed to adopt the Argentine tango signature leg kicks and flicks. After flicking my legs willy nilly around my one-bedroom apartment, I flicked my untrained leg at practice. "Okay, that's now in the routine," Stephen said. "That looks so cool."

What never quite materialized was the mythical "split drag," a next-level version of a move we were already doing quite well. In the regular drag, I hoist my bent leg up on his hip as he begins to walk backward. Like a plane taking off, the momentum lifts my free leg and we spin. The split version would have my ankle on his shoulder. He's 6'1 and I have my dad's hamstrings. It's not happening. But we got swept away by the idea for a minute.

And I am getting swept away by the experience, the joy of pouring myself into something brand new. I visualize the dress, the dance and what it would feel like to hear my name called.

More than once, my mom gently tempers my expectations. "I don't want you to ride home that night with a blanket over your head if you don't win," the way I did the afternoon of a figure skating competition in which I sat on the ice during a sit spin. I was a strong skater but never technically skilled.

Years before in my first skating competition, I placed 6th out of 8 and had to reconcile the fact that I was not who I thought I was - a future Olympic champion. It was the first time I remember feeling truly disappointed - my dream exceeded my talent, my inner life outsized my reality. And while a part of me wonders if I'm trying to heal a part of that little girl's broken heart with an adult opportunity to wear a sparkly dress and bring home the hardware, I'm reminded of the why.

Around the Arthur Murray studio are subtle reminders - light pink ribbons, little messages of hope amid sickness.

Between dances last year, I was moved to tears by the story of Wendy Schuman, a beloved daughter, friend, wife and mother of two young boys, who died from complications of breast cancer at 35 years old. One of her best friends Tiffany Hodgin chose to dance for her in last year's corporate challenge, raising more than $115,000 in the process. I looked at the pictures on the screen. Two women, Tiffany and Wendy, arms wrapped around each other, both with bright smiles, radiating light. One was in the room. One was not.

Tiffany said she was also delighted by the ballroom dance dress, dazzled by the opportunity to dance in front of a crowd again. But when she stepped on the floor that night, it wasn't about the sequins. It was about Wendy and the ability to carry on her light. When Tiffany took the floor, the crowd exploded. The emotion was palpable, the purpose clear.

That kind of clarity can shift anyone's perspective. I have recalibrated too. While I never had that one shining moment as an Olympic figure skater - or even a really good figure skater - I recognize that I have since experienced the Divine bliss I imagined would come with it. As a child, my other big dream was to host a morning television show. To anchor and report. For me, the journey has been circuitous and serendipitous. Improbable and predestined. It still feels surreal to get to do this work every day - the privilege of telling other people's stories - so I let gratitude lead the way.

So it's possible I had it wrong all along. Maybe it's not absolutely necessary to win a one-time charity dance competition as it is to live this dream every day. It's not that I am destined to win. It's that I'm destined to be a light in this world. To make people feel something. To shift their energy, give them a boost, inspire them to tackle their own lives. To live life colorfully and whole-heartedly. To just go for it. We only have one shot at this, so I want to spend mine blazing across the damn sky. That's star quality.