Taking the Lead: Lessons From a Life in Motion (3 page)

The day after the gun incident, we all went to church and I saw our neighbors there, blessing the sacrament. I was confused and angry. Didn’t God see what they did to me? Didn’t he care? I knew what my dad would say: “God knows and sees all. It’s in his hands.” But that didn’t make me feel any better or less frightened that the brothers could get away with this and there would be no punishment. Looking back, it was probably the first time I questioned my faith. We ended up moving about three miles away a few years later, largely because of this family.

At my new school, Monte Vista, I was awkward and had a hard time making friends and trusting people. I struggled in class. Facts and figures didn’t interest me. What can I say? We all learn things differently. Einstein had this theory that everyone is a genius, but if you have a classroom filled with different animals—say, a tiger, a monkey, and a fish in a bowl—and you ask them all to climb a tree, the fish is going to feel dumb because he can’t climb those branches. I was the fish. But each person has their own genius and their own skill; just because you don’t pass the test, it doesn’t mean you’re dumb. My teachers, though, constantly told me that I wasn’t very smart, and after a while, I started to believe them.

Recess was the time to prove yourself. We’d play football, and because I was the runt and the new kid, I was always the last kid picked. But I’d make a very conscious decision to intercept the ball so all the cool kids would see me and notice me. Eventually, I went from being last pick to first pick. For the first time, I felt my value and my worth on a team. I had something to contribute.

Yet I never felt like I belonged at school. No one got me or shared my creativity. I was labeled “weird,” so that’s how I felt. No matter how I tried to act, dress, even swear like everyone else, I stuck out. Then one day, my mom dragged me to my sisters’ dance classes at Center Stage Studio in Orem, Utah. My mom was always my biggest supporter, but truthfully, this was also a case of making her life easier. If all the Hough kids could go to the same after-school activity, it meant less running around for her. And Center Stage was delighted to have us all—they thought they had found themselves the blond Osmonds! When I finally stopped complaining, I realized this place was pretty magical. Everyone was so positive, so full of passion and energy. I learned a valuable lesson: You are who you hang around with.

From day 1, I had a natural rhythm and musicality. I went from the kid classes into the adult ones in a matter of weeks. I’m not sure where it came from—maybe the drum lessons my parents gave me. What I lacked in discipline and technique, I made up for with exuberance. I could actually
feel
the song rising up through my body. I could bring it to life through movement. I could express every emotion I was feeling: fear, pain, anger, frustration, loneliness, excitement. It exploded out of me. And truth be told, I was into girls, and the dance studio was
filled
with them.

So the kid who pitched a fit about going to dance class suddenly became a regular. Flying around the room, leaping through the air, I felt there was nothing—and no one—that could hold me down.

LEADING LESSONS

For a kid who never liked to pick apart a math equation, I have a pretty analytical brain. A few years ago, I came to the conclusion that you have to be an active participant in your life. You have to stop, take stock, and put things in perspective so you can see the bigger picture. I can’t tell you the exact moment this truth dawned on me; there was no single earth-shattering event or catalyst. But I do remember being at a U2 concert with my sister and tearing up as all these memories of my childhood and listening to U2 flooded over me. It took me back to a time of family and fun and feeling connected. A few weeks later, I was sitting at home in my apartment, looking at my collection of trophies and thinking, Yeah? So? Now what? Winning—the one thing that used to mean the world to me—felt empty. It didn’t matter how much hardware I accumulated, it didn’t give me that adrenaline high anymore.

What did was the feeling of connecting with people. Not just my dance partners, but strangers who would come up to me on the street and share their stories. There have been many who cornered me in a parking lot or sent me a message on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter. Too many to count, but one in particular stands out. A woman stopped me on the street to tell me about her grandmother. “She loved you,” she said. “She watched you from her hospital bed every night
Dancing with the Stars
was on. You took her back to a time when she loved to dance. You gave her such joy in her final days.” I got a lump in my throat. I had done this for someone? I thanked her and she took my hand. “No. Thank
you
.” It felt great. More than that, it felt right. It planted a seed in me, which I can honestly say was the beginning of this book.

Not too long ago, I agreed to give a twenty-minute lecture about health and dance, and it turned into two hours. Again, I felt that high from connecting with the audience, from sharing what I had learned. I began to look at my experiences as life lessons. What could they teach me? What was the purpose of my pain and suffering if not to make me a better, stronger person who is more equipped to lead? You know the old saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I think it’s more than that. I think what doesn’t kill you makes you wiser and a better human being. It opens your eyes, your heart, and your mind. You may not have control over everything that happens to you in your life externally, but you always have some control over what’s going on internally—how you handle your life experiences and what you take away from them.

In each chapter, I want to share with you the lessons I’ve learned. And if I make you pause for a moment and consider your own experiences as stepping-stones to taking the lead in your life, then I’ve done my job. I never imagined myself as a teacher—I was the worst student in school, the one you would vote most likely
not
to succeed. But now, I want to continue to learn more about myself and about human behavior. We all have God-given talent. The question is, what are you going to do with it?

I went to see the musical
Pippin
on Broadway with my Season 10
DWTS
partner, Nicole Scherzinger. There’s this great line in the song “Corner of the Sky”: “Don’t you see I want my life to be something more than long?” I can relate. I want to leave my footprint on this world in a positive, meaningful way. I want to lead by example. To do that takes a lot of introspection. It also takes courage. I try and see it as connecting the dots—the way I used to try and spot the constellations from my rooftop by drawing imaginary lines between the stars. Every moment in your life should be meaningful; each one should have a takeaway lesson. At the end of every chapter, you’ll find mine.

Speak up
.

Bullying can be physical, verbal, or emotional—words and threats are just as painful as fists. I know now that the worst thing you can do is suffer in silence. The bullies are counting on you to keep your mouth shut. By doing so, you’re giving them even more power. I understand the desire to leave it outside your front door, to just pretend the bullying doesn’t happen. In my case, I kept quiet because I was certain that tattling would make my situation worse. Either the brothers would kill me for telling, or my parents would confine me to my house to protect me from all things evil. I was convinced it was a lose-lose situation. But I realize now that I was wrong, and if I could go back and talk to my six-year-old self I would tell him to trust someone and get help—from a parent, an older sibling, a teacher. You’re not a wimp if you tell. In fact, seeking help requires incredible strength and courage. The most powerful weapon you have is your voice.

Nowadays, it’s easy to bully by hiding behind a phone or a computer screen. The words that people express on Facebook, Instagram, whatever—they’re just as cutting and painful as a physical blow. I discovered this when I entered the public eye. Social media has become a playground for cowardly, insecure individuals who unfortunately feel the need to direct negative comments and energy at someone they don’t even know. At first I reacted to it. Every obnoxious remark used to dwell in my mind. But the more I learned about human behavior, the clearer it became that the negativity these people project is a reflection of who they are. I don’t believe it makes them bad people, but they are seeking a significance that they are not getting elsewhere. Realizing this makes it much easier for me to ignore the haters and not take the bait.

Power over others is weakness in disguise
.

People talk a lot about how bullying can destroy your life. For me, it’s been a revelation. I got hit in the head a lot of times in my childhood, so maybe it finally knocked some sense into me. I understand now that someone who is strong and loves himself would only ever give love back. The superior human being will always see the light in someone and choose to encourage that light instead of dimming it. Those brothers? They needed to control me because they wanted to feel important. They craved attention and resorted to violence to get it. They needed to control me because they were weak. Looking back now, I actually feel sorry for them. I don’t feel like the victim anymore; I was a witness to their suffering. It’s helped me move past the pain and fear and make peace with this part of my past. Kids tend to blame themselves when they’re bullied—as if something they have done is causing some mean kid to beat the crap out of them. But I see now it was never about me. I did nothing to these brothers. I didn’t provoke them; I didn’t ask for trouble. They simply saw an easy prey. I ask myself over and over what must have been going on in their heads to make them unleash such wrath on me and my family? What kind of personal pain or insecurity was behind it? Trying to understand helps me let go of the anger and begin to forgive.

Bullies come in all shapes and forms
.

Adults can be bullies as well, so be wary of the people around you who try to twist your arm into doing their bidding. You know the type: “My way or the highway.” I’ve met a lot of these manipulators over the years—people who seem nice but are really all about using you or belittling you for their own gain. There are two ways to be the tallest building in a city. You can work hard, build a team, and do the right things to create a huge skyscraper. Or you can tear down all the other buildings around you. That’s what bullies do. They think they’re big, but it’s an illusion. How about coworkers who try and turn the boss against you to make themselves look better? Or someone who’s always dumping her dirty work on you because you’re kind enough to offer help? Here’s the interesting part: these grown-up bullies were most likely bullies as kids or bullied themselves. The same rules apply: Be smart about the situation you’re in. Stand up for yourself, say no to their unreasonable demands, and don’t allow them to worm their way into your head or your life.

REFLECTING ON DEREK

“Derek thinks of others before he thinks of himself. He’s very selfless and motivated by giving joy to other people. He just told me, “I’m so overwhelmed and have so much going on, but that’s always the time I do the best work.” It’s so true. When it’s do or die, he’s a doer. He’s such a great teacher because he wants others to have joy, confidence, and strength. He grew up with all sisters and several female dance partners, and he teaches women to dance on
DWTS
. It’s no wonder he’s very in tune with how we think and feel. He makes women truly believe in themselves—not just because he’s telling them they’re beautiful and strong but because he really believes it.”

—JULIANNE HOUGH

GIRLS AND MORE GIRLS

O
NE OF THE
dance studio owners had six daughters, and one of them—her name was Autumn “Gypsy” DelGrosso—was my age and looking for a partner for dance competitions. It was kind of a no-brainer, because I had a huge crush on her. She was very religious, and I remember trying really hard to be “spiritual” so she’d like me. Whenever I saw her coming, I’d kneel down and pretend I was praying. I’d quote Scripture in casual conversation, carry a Bible in my dance bag—anything to make her see how “devout” I was. It was a pretty bizarre way to impress a girl, but hey, whatever works!

When I was a little boy, girls were my motivation for most things. I certainly didn’t look like a stud—I was a scrawny little runt with white-blond hair and two front teeth missing (I knocked them out leaping off my couch, and it took forever for the adult teeth to grow in). But I had four sisters, and this gave me a great advantage with girls. I thought I understood the female mind. I would eavesdrop on my sisters’ conversations about boys and use the information I gleaned to my advantage. I would always tell myself I had the inside track.

I was constantly writing girls love letters or “roses are red” poems professing my undying devotion—a hopeless romantic at seven years old. One day, my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Fox, scolded me for kissing a girl. It was “highly inappropriate” according to her, but I couldn’t help it. The girl’s name was Elizabeth, and I was smitten.

“Derek, if you want to do something nice for her, bring her a trophy,” Mrs. Fox told me.

“A trophy?” I asked. “How is that better than a kiss?”

But I did as she suggested. I went home and got my little plastic soccer trophy that my team had won and handed it to Elizabeth the next day. “I think I’m supposed to give this to you,” I told her. She was confused (as was I) but took it, and returned it to me at the end of the day. She must have been somewhat impressed, because I got a kiss back. Not bad. Maybe my teacher did know something.

But no dime-store trophy or love letter was going to win over Autumn DelGrosso. So I volunteered to be her partner. It gave me a purpose beyond getting into trouble. We rehearsed a couple of days a week after school, sometimes into the night, and I didn’t complain once. I loved it, even if getting to the studio and home every day was quite a haul. It took my mom forty minutes each way from South Jordan to Orem. On our way, we would pass this landmark called Point of the Mountain, and once, during a bad winter storm, just as we reached it, our car skidded and we got into an accident. It was a very dangerous spot, a place where several people had been killed. We were okay, but every time we drove past the Point during the winter, I held my breath. I thought at any moment we might lose traction in the snow and that would be it. That we continued braving that road was a testament to my dedication to dancing—and to my mom’s dedication to getting me there.