A Return To Form

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” ― Plato

The Love

As a Floridian child, I loved to swim. It was like writing my name, tying my shoes, or combing my hair.

At six, I began swimming competitively for my neighborhood swim team, and by eight, I was convinced I was bound for the Olympics.

Each summer morning, I biked to practice, giddy with anticipation, as if my neighborhood's short 25-meter pool were Mecca.

That pool felt like home. I can still feel the texture of its walls, but I cannot recall a single record I broke or trophy I won inside it.

My memory favors the taste of the water, the early mornings, and the tough practices.

Most of all, it favors the moment that derailed it all — the time when I was jolted out of adolescence and into the anxiety of adulthood.

The Loss

In the summer of 2011, my heat took off like all those before, and I was swimming along happily, unconcerned with the swimmers next to me or my finishing place. My confidence was tied only to myself. 

However, as I completed the last flip-turn in my final race, a rush of thoughts hit me:

"Why are you so slow?"

“Look how fit all the other swimmers are."

“You're not thin enough."

“You're not good enough."

My first spiral of self-hatred surrounded me in the water. My body, which I once trusted to glide across the pool, began hyperventilating, trading breathing air for water.

In my panic, I abandoned all the techniques I had learned and limply paddled to the end. I finished dead last, exited the pool, and, with tears in my eyes, told my parents I was done.

The fear of failure, of comparison, and my own insecurities took away something I loved so dearly, and I let it.

Until a few months ago.

The Labor

Over a decade after leaving the pool, I bought a cap and goggles and crept uptown late at night to a small lap pool on the Upper East Side.

I chose this location knowing that my only company in the pool would be grandmothers and water aerobics attendees — the least intimidating audience for my whimper of a return.

As I jumped in the pool that night and swam my first 25 meters, the feeling that entered my body was what I assume it feels like to be reborn. I was winded but so happy to be.

However, after 30 minutes, I realized I was not the same swimmer I had been a decade prior. I was going to have to relearn everything. It's devastating to realize you’re bad at something you once excelled at. I wanted to leave the pool.

But this time, I stayed.

I had left all my technique and power in the past, and so I would leave my ego there as well.

I returned to that pool after work for the next four months and swam each day. Dormant memories bubbled up in my brain. My old coach's voice echoed in my head. A smile formed with each breath I took.

In a small pool late at night, I slowly regained my love for something I thought I lost.

Myself.

The Lesson

The point of sharing this experience is to remind both you and myself that living a life rooted in success does not stem from some rare DNA strand, nor does it mean one is immune to self-doubt.

Yes, it might have been impressive if I had never given up on swimming. But there's something equally remarkable in deciding to return after walking away.

We've all reached a point where we've given up because something felt too mentally or physically demanding. But true greatness comes from recognizing our insecurities, confronting them, and choosing to be vulnerable anyway.

There's undeniable power in facing your fears, but even more in understanding why those fears exist — and moving forward despite them.

Overcoming our fears and insecurities in exchange for success is no more unique to us than breathing. We're all capable of it.

You just have to choose if you want to dive back in.

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Thanks for reading.

As always, stay curious.