"I was always kind of second. I've always been the underdog in that sense. I've been chosen, but I've always been the second cast."

If the ridiculously accomplished woman saying this weren't so earnest, I'd roll my eyes. But since I can almost see the imposter syndrome clutched in her sinewy limbs, I don't. Instead, I keep staring at her face and the poreless complexion that looks 17 years old when it's really 31. I realize that for women like Ashley Laracey—an elite ballerina—these two things must be related: the stepped-out-of-a-cryogenic-freezer skin and the frigid self-criticism. Like "underdog" Laracey, many ballerinas dance all day, never seeing much sunlight, and, despite the hours of grueling practice and self-flagellation, never think it's enough.

Morning is the only part of Laracey's day that's unusually relaxed. At 9 A.M. in her Upper West Side apartment, she's sock-footed on the couch with her husband, fellow New York City Ballet member Troy Schumacher, sipping a protein shake and coffee. It's not until 9:40 A.M. that Laracey makes her way to work, where she'll take classes and rehearse upcoming performances until 7 P.M. Like all other NYCB dancers, she works six days per week, with Monday as her only day off.

When evening performances commence on September 23, Laracey will often work until 10:45 P.M. "We're tired now, but we're not, like, really, really tired," she says. Still, if she wanted it, she has an excuse to be especially exhausted. On yesterday's "off" day, she danced for an all-day photo shoot before attending class at Fordham University from 6 P.M. to 8:45 P.M. At 31, Laracey's older than most Fordham juniors, of course, but slowly chipping away at her communications and business credits has paid off for her career: Last year, she was promoted from the company's corps (53 members) to its soloists (15 members), a jump many dancers never make.

Despite her huge accomplishment, Laracey aspires to become one of the company's 23 principals. Being a principal is the company's highest honor, and even in Laracey's 10:30 A.M. class, the hierarchy is palpable: Veteran dancers claim the spots closer to the front of the class, while corps members hang out in the back. As Laracey finds her place near the front of the room, wraps her toes in painter's tape, and eases into her first split of the morning, Sterling Hyltin, her friend of 13 years, assumes a place directly in front of Laracey. Hyltin, I later learn, is a principal.

At 12:25 P.M., after practice, we walk 12 blocks uptown so she can hit the pool at the Jewish Community Center. While many dancers elliptical away this lunchtime break at an Equinox near NYCB, Laracey goes out of her way to swim. (She swears it's because she enjoys it, not because she's anxious to expel more calories.) She never counts the laps, she says—largely to ensure that it remains an outlet, not an obsession.

"I've had an eating disorder; I understand that thought process," she says after completing 15 minutes of flawless freestyle. But she's now made a commitment to a healthy lifestyle—"Troy [my husband] was very helpful with that"—and she thinks the company has made serious strides, too, in raising awareness and providing resources (counselors, nutritionists, etc). "At this point, it's definitely way better than when I got here 10 years ago," she says.

Yet, the same The New York Times piece that lauded Laracey's dancing ability last year—saying she possessed "delicacy, authority, [and] refinement" when she dances—also remarked that "her figure is ravishing, with slender, tapering limbs," as if a show review is incomplete without a critique of the dancers' bodies. (Of course, the body talk is not always positive: In 2010, one of Laracey's idols, Jenifer Ringer, was famously lampooned for looking "as if she'd eaten one sugarplum too many.") Beyond her internal dialogue or NYCB, weight is still very much part of the larger discourse; thinness, still the ideal.

After showering and lunching on yogurt and fruit, Laracey returns to NYCB, where she prepares for an afternoon rehearsal of Justin Peck's Belles-Lettres. She is now, no longer chlorine-haired or street-clothed, the archetypal ballerina: a wispy tulle skirt and taut bun pirouetting. It's 4 P.M., and Laracey gets no corrections from Peck on her pas de deux, though, naturally, she's expecting them. I ask her what she does when the criticism is harsher; if it ever gets to be too much; and if she'd ever cry in front of her fellow company members. She tries not to, she says, because, "They see it as weak if you can't handle it. They don't want to deal with drama—they have so much drama to deal with all day long. And if you cry, they see you more as a child instead of an adult."

Crying about physical pain is a different thing, however. No one faulted Laracey for sobbing after she ripped three ligaments during 2004's George Balanchine's The Nutcracker. After the setback, Laracey couldn't dance for an entire year: she was "out," not just "injured," which dancers always are on some level. Today, post-rehearsal, Laracey's FHL tendon is bugging her, so at 5:15 P.M., she ducks into a windowless room lined with anatomy charts to consult the company's physical therapist. The most important thing, she's learned, is to treat new ailments immediately so they don't get worse, so you don't traverse from "injured" to "out." Because, she says, "When you're out, you feel worthless; you feel disposable."

Now, it's 6 P.M. and Laracey needs to watch a friend's rehearsal (she promised) and do some more interviews before she can head home to spend time with her husband. Maybe they'll drink a glass of wine or watch an episode of House of Cards or Orange Is the New Black before they fall asleep, but that's about as wild as things get. She's an early bird, and most of her friends are dancers, wed to the same demanding schedule. If not, maybe she'll carve out some time with her "outside friends," people she meets through her career, but in lieu of dancers are "composers, musicians, editors, all kind of in the art realm," she explains, "but not really any non-artistic people. I don't have time to meet them."

At least, not for the next decade: At 31, Laracey knows the curtain's creeping in at the corners of her tenure, but she thinks she can dance professionally until she's 40, and "hopefully longer." After that? Maybe Denmark. She's got dreams about a second career, maybe as a certified financial planner. For now, though, she's focused on working, on dancing, on mastering the job's biggest challenge, which she says is "believing in yourself day in and day out, and not letting yourself defeat yourself before you've even been given the chance."

"I think that's the hardest part," she says. "This is not meant to sound conceited, but dance is easy for me; I don't have to work to lift my leg. It's more the mental [stuff] that's hard. I'm not as tough as I should be." Having seen firsthand how she navigates the demands of her day, I know she's incredibly, incredibly tough on the inside—and out. No one doubts that. Except, of course, Laracey, the Alpha dog who sees an underdog whenever she looks in the mirror.

See Ashley Laracey perform in Justin Peck's 'Belles-Lettres,' which premieres tonight, and runs again on October 2, October 7, October 9, and October 11 at New York City's David H. Koch Theater.

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