After fifteen years in ballet, Téo Dubreuil, a soloist at The Royal Ballet reflects on the discipline behind performance, the importance of listening to his body and the everyday rituals that help him recover, reconnect and find balance beyond the stage. From the intensity of rehearsals to the quiet comfort of home, Teo sits down with Brendan, founder of anatomē, for The Sunday Edition to explore how his relationship with rest, creativity and performance has evolved - and why the moments away from the stage matter just as much as those spent on it.
What first drew you to ballet, and when did you realise it might become your life’s work?
I grew up in the theatre, as both my parents were professional ballet dancers. I suppose I was drawn to ballet initially because of the physicality of it. I loved the feeling of moving and the discipline of learning something that seemed almost impossible at first. I don't think I understood how demanding a career could be when I was younger — even though my parents warned me — I just knew that I loved being in the studio.
I probably realised it could become my life’s work in my late teens, at The Royal Ballet School, when I started to understand that I wasn't just enjoying ballet, I was willing to build my life around it. There was a point when the sacrifices started to feel like choices rather than sacrifices. Fifteen years later, I'm still learning.
What does dancing with The Royal Ballet mean to you personally?
It’s a huge privilege, but it's also something that becomes very normal when you're living it every day. You come into the studio, you see the same people, you rehearse, you perform, you go home. Then occasionally you stop and think about the history of the company and the incredible dancers who have been there before you, and it hits you.
There is a real sense of tradition, but at the same time you're constantly being asked to bring something individual to the work. That's a balance I really value.
How has living and working in London shaped you as an artist?
Massively. London is such a stimulating city, and I think that inevitably feeds into youas an artist. You can see a great exhibition in the afternoon, hear live music in the evening, go to the theatre, sit in a café and just watch the people pass by. There’s so much life happening around you.
It’s also taught me that being an artist isn’t only about what happens in the studio. The more experiences you have outside of dance, the more you have to draw from when you come back to the studio.
Ballet is both highly disciplined and deeply expressive. Where do you find freedom within that structure?
I think the structure is actually what allows the freedom. Once you’ve done all the technical work and your body knows what it’s doing, you can stop thinking about every individual movement and start responding to what’s happening in the moment.
The older I’ve got, the less interested I’ve become in making something look perfect. I’m much more interested in whether it feels truthful. There are moments on stage where you can almost forget about technique completely. That’s where I feel the most freedom.
'The older I’ve got, the less interested I’ve become in making something look perfect. I’m much more interested in whether it feels truthful.
What can you communicate through movement that you cannot express in words?
There’s something very immediate about movement. You can communicate tension, tenderness, anger, vulnerability, desire — sometimes without doing very much at all.
Words can explain something, whereas movement can make you feel something before you’ve even understood why. I think that’s one of the reasons dance has stayed so powerful for me. It bypasses the analytical part of your brain a little bit.
When you step onto the stage, what helps you feel fully present?
Breathing. It sounds incredibly simple, but when you’re nervous or excited, your breathing changes and suddenly you’re thinking about the audience, the lights, the next step, whether you’ve done enough preparation.
I try to come back to the physical sensations — my feet on the floor, my breathing, my partner if I’m dancing with someone. Once I’m genuinely listening to what’s happening in the moment, I’m usually there.
'I try to come back to the physical sensations — my feet on the floor, my breathing, my partner if I’m dancing with someone.'
What anchors you outside the intensity of rehearsals and performances?
Home. Definitely.
Having someone who knows you completely outside of ballet is incredibly grounding. My partner has known me through good performances, bad performances, injuries, all the highs and lows. At home I’m not “the dancer”, I’m just myself.
And now we have a puppy, so there’s not much room for taking yourself too seriously. Coming home after a difficult day and having this little creature who is completely thrilled to see you is a pretty effective reset.
What gives you joy that has nothing to do with dance?
Our dog is probably the obvious answer at the moment. He has completely taken over our lives.
I also enjoy cooking when I have the time, especially when there’s an excuse to try and do something impressive. I like going out for a long lunch, discovering a new restaurant, having friends over. I do really enjoy just being at home; it's definitely my happy place.
There’s something nice about doing things that have no productive outcome. As a dancer, you’re always measuring progress — improving a jump, getting through a rehearsal, preparing for a performance. It’s healthy to have things in your life where there is absolutely nothing to achieve.
Your body is central to your work. How have you learned to listen to what it needs?
That has probably been one of the biggest lessons of the past fifteen years.
When you’re younger, you tend to think that being disciplined means pushing through everything. Now I understand that discipline is knowing when not to push. Rest, sleep, nutrition, strength work, physiotherapy — they’re not extras. They’re part of the job.
I’ve also had to learn the difference between discomfort and pain. Your body is constantly giving you information, and if you ignore it for long enough, it tends to become much louder.
'Now I understand that discipline is knowing when not to push. Rest, sleep, nutrition, strength work, physiotherapy — they’re not extras. They’re part of the job.'
After a demanding rehearsal or performance, how do you transition out of that heightened state?
It’s not always easy. Your body can still be full of adrenaline even when your brain knows the day is over.
After a performance, I usually take a shower, get something to eat and make the journey home. I don’t like going straight from the stage to bed because I’m often still buzzing.
Once I’m home, seeing my partner and the dog usually brings me back to earth pretty quickly. There’s something very reassuring about ordinary domestic life after you’ve spent several hours under stage lights.
What does your wind-down practice look like at the end of the day?
It depends on the day, but I try not to make it too complicated. A shower or bath, something to eat, a cup of tea.
Sometimes we’ll watch something together or catch up on each other's days. And if the puppy is in the mood for it, I’ll take him out for a late-night walk.
I’ve become much more conscious of having a transition between work and sleep. I used to think I could just come home and immediately switch off. I don’t think the nervous system works quite like that.
How do you create space for genuine rest when your profession asks so much of you physically?
I’ve had to be quite deliberate about it. Rest doesn’t always happen naturally when you’re in a company where everyone is incredibly driven.
I’ve learned that saying no to something occasionally doesn’t mean you’re less committed. Sometimes it allows you to keep doing the work you love for longer.
I also try not to feel guilty about having completely unproductive days. There are days when the best thing I can do is sleep a little longer, take the dog for a walk and do very little. That’s not wasted time. That’s recovery.
'There are days when the best thing I can do is sleep a little longer, take the dog for a walk and do very little. That’s not wasted time. That’s recovery.'
Are there particular rituals - scent, music, bathing, food, reading, walking — that help you feel grounded?
I’m very much a shower-and-clean-clothes person after dancing. There’s something about physically washing the day off that helps me leave the studio behind.
I also love a good candle or incense when I’m at home - nothing too overpowering - and I like to listen to music when I’m cooking and pottering around the flat. Walking has become a big one now since having a dog. You can’t really rush a puppy walk, which is actually quite nice.
Food is definitely part of my wind-down. Sitting down and having a proper meal feels very different from eating something quickly between rehearsals.
Where in London do you feel most at ease or most yourself?
I’ve always liked the quieter parts of London. I love being able to disappear into a park and forget that you’re in one of the busiest cities in the world.
But I think home is probably the place where I feel most myself. After fifteen years of a career where so much of your life happens in studios, theatres and dressing rooms, I’ve become increasingly appreciative of having a space that feels completely separate from work.
We have our routines at home -cooking, walking the dog, seeing friends, doing absolutely nothing. These ordinary things have become very important to me.
At this point in your life, what are you trying to make more room for — both as a dancer and as a person?
I’m trying to make room for more curiosity.
When you’ve been doing something for fifteen years, there’s a danger of just going through the motions. I don’t want to lose that feeling of being curious about a role, about a choreographer, about what my body can still do.
Outside of dance, I’m trying to make more room for life that isn’t organised around the next performance. More time with my partner, more time with my friends, more travel, more long lunches, more walks with the dog.
I think when you’re younger you can feel that everything has to serve your career. Now I understand that the life around the career is what gives you and the work you do its meaning. I hope to keep dancing or working within the company for as long as I can, but I also want to make sure I’m actually living while I’m doing it.
