Within the opening moments of Dance Moms, the Lifetime reality TV sensation that premiered in 2011, viewers are thrust into the heart of the drama. A minister, also a mother of a dancer, storms into Abby Lee Miller’s dance studio, interrupting practice to confront the notoriously strict instructor. The issue? Her daughter, Regan, was allegedly dismissed from acrobatics class for the minor offense of wearing socks. Miller, known for her unwavering and often harsh approach to dance education, cited safety concerns. This initial conflict escalates rapidly, leading to both the mother and daughter being ejected from the studio, but not before Miller brands young Regan as “pathetic.” The scene culminates with the enraged mother pursuing Miller through the studio, prompting Miller to ultimately call the police on what she dismissively labels a “psycho.”
This explosive introduction to Dance Moms immediately establishes the show’s central conflict: the battle lines drawn between the demanding Abby Lee Miller and her ambitious young dancers, and the equally determined, often volatile mothers perceived as obstacles in their daughters’ path to stardom. What this dramatic opening scene conveniently omits, however, is crucial context. Years later, Regan and her mother revealed in a TikTok video that prior to this on-camera altercation, Miller had allegedly made disparaging remarks about the then 10-year-old Regan’s weight and intelligence. This revelation casts a darker shadow on the seemingly spontaneous drama, hinting at a more calculated manipulation behind the scenes. This incident, as it turns out, was not an isolated event but rather representative of Miller’s controversial methods – a belief that instilling tears in the studio was preferable to facing disappointment at auditions.
The inaugural season of Dance Moms continued to unfold a tapestry of controversies. Viewers witnessed heated debates over the young dancers, aged 6 to 13, being adorned in overtly sexualized costumes. The show documented instances where dancers were pressured to perform through visible injuries. The series even touched upon the problematic typecasting of the team’s sole Black dancer. Furthermore, a dance routine centered around the unsettling theme of missing children and kidnappings sparked concerns about the potential psychological impact on the young performers. Throughout these storylines, the mothers frequently clashed with Miller, often reiterating the plea that “they’re just kids.” Yet, Miller’s unwavering response remained consistent: this rigorous, often emotionally charged environment, she argued, was essential preparation for the cutthroat realities of the professional dance industry.
But how much of the drama on Dance Moms was authentic, and how much was manufactured for television? Since the show’s initial run, many of the dancers and their mothers have come forward, clarifying that while the dialogue was not scripted in the traditional sense – meaning they weren’t given lines to memorize – the dramatic peaks and valleys were frequently orchestrated by the production team. Numerous sources, including former cast members, have revealed that producers actively encouraged conflict, often pitting the mothers against each other. Allegedly, many of the explosive arguments would dissipate into laughter the moment cameras stopped rolling, exposing the performative nature of much of the on-screen conflict. However, the enduring fascination with reality TV lies in its uncanny ability to reflect genuine cultural truths, even amidst fabricated scenarios.
In the case of Dance Moms, the underlying truth it unveils is the stark reality of child stardom: the transformation of children into commodities, where their well-being is often secondary to the pursuit of fame and profit. The show, whether intentionally or not, became a real-time case study in the exploitative nature of the entertainment industry. It presented a disturbing yet familiar formula: the premature sexualization of young girls, the relentless pressure to prioritize performance over physical and mental health, the insidious racism that people of color are often forced to navigate and, as Miller herself suggested, exploit for “advantage” in their careers. The show exposed the adult themes thrust upon children to generate marketable content and the deliberate alienation of these young performers from their families, often portrayed as naive impediments to success by industry “experts.”
These very conditions of child fame, once largely hidden from public view, are now being openly discussed by former child stars like Miley Cyrus, Drew Barrymore, Jeanette McCurdy, Melissa Joan Hart, and Brooke Shields. Dance Moms, however, offered an unprecedented glimpse into these harsh realities as they unfolded. Premiering when I was 13, Dance Moms was my initiation into the world of reality television. Unlike other popular reality franchises of the era, such as The Hills, Real Housewives, and The Simple Life, Dance Moms featured stars my own age grappling with situations that, in some ways, resonated with my own experiences, albeit amplified and distorted by the pressures of fame. I had grown up consuming media that romanticized the journey of ordinary kids achieving stardom, often portraying it as a fun and effortless endeavor – Disney’s Hannah Montana and Sonny With a Chance, or Nickelodeon’s iCarly and Victorious come to mind.
What set Dance Moms apart, and what made it deeply unsettling, was the constant unease it provoked. While the show had its share of comedic moments, often stemming from the mothers’ dramatic interactions, there was an underlying sense of dread. Watching Miller throw a chair in Paige’s (age 13) direction during rehearsal or relentlessly belittle Chloe, whose storyline often revolved around being perpetually second-best (or, in Miller’s words, “the first to lose”), was not entertaining. It was genuinely disturbing. It instilled in me a profound sense of gratitude for my own ordinary childhood, spent in the安全 of my bedroom, surrounded by my drawings and stuffed animals, far removed from the grueling world of filming, dancing, and competing under intense pressure.
The allure of fame, as depicted in Dance Moms, never seemed worth the price. Even as the show gained popularity and the dancers secured professional opportunities – the season one finale showcased the girls in a music video – the narrative itself often undermined the glamour. Recurring storylines revolved around the dancers contemplating quitting, unable to withstand the immense pressure and emotional toll of being under Abby Lee Miller’s tutelage. Even the elements that felt staged resonated with a disturbing realism. The lawsuit filed by Paige Hyland’s family against Abby Lee Miller following the chair-throwing incident served as a stark reminder that the on-screen drama had tangible real-world consequences.
While reality television has undoubtedly become more sensationalized in recent years, reaching new lows with shows like MILF Manor and Couple to Throuple, it has also become increasingly sanitized and carefully curated behind the scenes. Reality TV, at its core, remains an exploitative genre, frequently demanding participants to expose their most vulnerable moments to a global audience, often enduring intense scrutiny and, in some cases, receiving minimal compensation. However, a significant shift has occurred in what aspects of this exploitation are actually shown to viewers. On shows like Love Island, the near-constant filming, the lack of access to the outside world, and even the absence of accurate timekeeping are deliberately obscured. Similarly, on Love Is Blind, the contestants’ less-than-glamorous living conditions, such as sleeping in single-room trailers allegedly infested with cockroaches, were kept hidden from the audience. Instead, viewers are presented with carefully constructed narratives of smiles and expressions of gratitude for “the experience.” The subsequent brand deals and social media opportunities that materialize for these reality stars further contribute to the illusion of a positive and rewarding experience.
The cracks in this carefully constructed facade begin to appear in tell-all interviews and lawsuits. Rachel Lindsey’s public discussions about the inherent racism within The Bachelorette franchise, the Real Housewives revelations about the pressures to engage in heavy drinking as a prerequisite for the job, and the Squid Game reality spin-off contestants threatening legal action after sustaining injuries on set – these instances pull back the curtain, revealing the less palatable realities of reality TV production. Yet, despite these revelations, audiences continue to tune in for the next season, often accepting these issues as part of the entertainment package. Sometimes, the sanitization involves subtle adjustments, like downplaying or eliminating elements deemed too controversial or unappealing – the early seasons of Love Island, for instance, featured contestants drinking and smoking cigarettes throughout the night, a practice that has since been significantly curtailed.
Production companies have become acutely aware of the risks associated with providing unfiltered access to the behind-the-scenes realities of their reality stars. The result is a significantly more polished and controlled portrayal of ordinary individuals thrust into the spotlight. Since Dance Moms, it’s difficult to recall another show that so readily exposed the often-unpleasant realities of child stardom before those children grew into adults capable of sharing their own narratives.
This process of sanitization and control is becoming even more pronounced in the age of social media, where mommy bloggers transform their families into influencer brands and child stars emerge from TikTok, Instagram Reels, and YouTube rather than traditional media platforms. In this evolving landscape of child labor, the industry is even less regulated, and the content presented to audiences, now often controlled directly by the stars or their parents, is meticulously curated to eliminate any hint of controversy.
Revisiting old clips of Dance Moms evokes a stark contrast to the highly polished and controlled image of child stardom prevalent today. It feels closer in spirit to the raw and unsettling portrayals of child exploitation found in films like Pretty Baby, where Brooke Shields filmed nude scenes at age 11, or Thirteen, in which Evan Rachel Wood simulated drug use at 14. These examples stand in stark opposition to the carefully curated narratives presented by mommy blogs or even The D’Amelio Show, Hulu’s 2021 docu-series offering a glimpse into the “real life” of TikTok sensations Charli and Dixie D’Amelio. In The D’Amelio Show, the primary antagonists are online negativity and generalized anxiety. The series emphasizes the supposed balance between the negative aspects of fame and the overwhelming positives – Teen Choice Awards, red carpet appearances in designer clothing, and lucrative fashion lines. While ostensibly aiming to raise awareness about the mental health challenges associated with cyberbullying, even for the wealthy and famous, the show simultaneously functions as aspirational content. Bathed in bright colors, natural light, and showcasing the immaculate, Architectural Digest-worthy D’Amelio mansion, the family is consistently depicted hugging, laughing, and impeccably dressed in the latest trends.
This stands in stark contrast to the fluorescent-lit, somewhat depressing Pittsburgh dance studio, a faded white brick building that served as the primary setting for Dance Moms. Both the D’Amelio parents and the Dance Moms mothers offer similar assurances that their children are free to leave the industry and pursue “normal lives.” Yet, both sets of parents demonstrably continue to drive their children, both literally and emotionally, to every meeting, audition, and public appearance. However, the portrayal of the parents diverges significantly. Unlike the D’Amelio parents, consistently presented as loving, competent, and supportive, the Dance Moms are frequently villainized, particularly by Abby Lee Miller. In one memorable season three scene, Kelly, a former dance student of Abby’s herself, breaks down after Abby removes her daughters from a dance routine, blaming Kelly for the decision. Abby’s response, delivered with characteristic cruelty, is to shout the now-infamous line: “I am the best thing for Paige.”
Perhaps the most telling distinction lies in the D’Amelio parents’ seemingly seamless collaboration with the managers and industry professionals orchestrating their daughters’ careers. They appear to have mastered the art of subtly and effectively navigating the complex rules of the fame game. At least on television, their family unit projects an image of flawless cohesion, akin to the hyper-edited perfection of mommy blogs that perpetuate the myth of the perfect family. In Dance Moms, the family dynamics are messy, volatile, and intensely passionate. While the Dance Moms are undeniably complicit in the same exploitative system as the D’Amelios – profiting from their children’s talents and thrusting them into an industry notorious for consuming innocence – their portrayal of navigating the precarious and often perilous path to fame feels far more authentic. Many of them held ordinary jobs, some were single mothers, and all served as their children’s primary caregivers. These circumstances, even when the conflicts were amplified or staged, lent an emotional truth to their on-screen struggles. Of course, they would react fiercely when a dance teacher berated their child. And, tragically, of course they would return to the studio, clinging to the hope that the sacrifices and pain might ultimately lead to success. They were, in essence, betting on the elusive promise at the end of the tunnel. If the child influencers of today experience similar vulnerabilities and anxieties, these realities are carefully concealed from public view.
While the D’Amelios navigate business meetings with high-powered executives and recording studios in Los Angeles, the Dance Moms troupe traveled by bus to regional children’s dance competitions held in school auditoriums across New Jersey. The children were often shown crying as their mothers, simultaneously bickering amongst themselves, meticulously sewed costume hats into their hair and applied eyeliner to their young faces. The mothers rationalized the bullying, the relentless pressure, and the manufactured drama by clinging to the belief that Abby Lee Miller was the most talented instructor available, that their children had formed close bonds within the studio, and that this arduous path was the only route to a professional dance career.
The most poignant and unsettling aspect of Dance Moms was the frequent anticlimactic nature of the competitions. Even when the dancers diligently followed Miller’s demanding instructions, victory was not guaranteed. More often than not, the stakes of the show were painfully low, and this, paradoxically, made it even more compelling and emotionally resonant. Yes, Maddie Ziegler eventually achieved mainstream fame through her collaborations with Sia, appearing in numerous music videos (though even this relationship has faced scrutiny regarding potential grooming dynamics, a sadly common occurrence for child stars). The girls secured auditions at prestigious dance institutions and launched side hustles as YouTubers. But the overarching narrative arc for almost all the original dancers followed a similar trajectory: one by one, they reached their breaking point, unable to endure the relentless drama and pressure, and tearfully departed from Abby Lee Miller’s studio. Since leaving the show, the original cast members have experienced varying degrees of continued fame, but all have largely receded from the intense public spotlight, save for their carefully curated social media presences with millions of followers. They have, in essence, discovered a new, more controlled form of fame, one that allows them to meticulously manage their public image. One can only hope that, away from the cameras, their families are providing the support and care they need. — LM
