As I pushed the fogged-up glass door open, I was hit instantly with a wall of thick, warm air and the distantly familiar smell of chlorine. We carefully padded along the slippery tile floor to the last remaining open lane, grabbed a kickboard and fiddled with our goggles. This was my first time back in a lap pool in years, and I was nervous.
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with swimming. I was lucky enough to spend much of my childhood in swimming pools, and when I was little, the water was a place of play and freedom. Competitive swim team, on the other hand, caused me a significant amount of anxiety. The buzzer, the panic of a false start, the pain of hitting your arm on the lane rope, counting the strokes to your flip turn—even these memories cause my heart rate to spike.
I don’t remember why I joined originally, but I’m sure it was because I loved the pool. And because all my friends swam too. But it turns out I was a good swimmer. Like, record-breaking good.
My swim cap was tie-dye, and my parents loved it because it made me easier to find in the crowded swim meets. One of my clearest (and one of the few positive) memories of competitive swimming was being fully immersed in the water and still being able to hear my parents yelling encouragement cutting through the chaotic splashing of the race.
Butterfly was my best stroke, to my dismay. People said I glided across the water, but I felt more like I was floundering, barely able to get above the surface long enough to gasp for air. When I finished each length of the pool, hitting the wall with both hands at the same time, I would feel such relief it was over. I felt my chest contracting as I tried to get as much air back as possible, coughing up any water I’d been unfortunate enough to swallow.
I’ve mostly stayed out of the pool since high school, so swimming again with a supportive, equally out-of-practice friend was incredibly healing. It was hard work, and my butterfly definitely still felt like gasping for air. But I felt the joy of it again too. The feeling of being the only one in the world, just you and the line at the bottom of the pool and your focus on remembering to breathe. When I quit in high school, there were aspects of swimming, namely my anxiety, stealing my joy from the activity—so much so that I didn’t even remember it existed.
In my apartment, there is a print of artwork by Morgan Harper Nichols hanging that reads “When you encounter joy again, let it in.” To be honest, it’s been hanging there for so long that I’d forgotten what it said, and what that meant, until it was recently pointed out to me again by a friend during a conversation about fear. I’ve been scared to get back in the pool for years, and I always thought it was because I hate swimming. But I don’t—I love the rush of pushing off the wall, and how strong I feel. I love reconnecting with the water—a place I used to spend so much time. I encountered joy somewhere I expected to encounter anxiety, and I had to consciously choose to let it in.
I’m going swimming again on Tuesday. I can’t wait.
Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.
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Grin. I remember my mother-in-law saying my husband quit swimming because he didn’t like beating the other boys. Turning something as restful and healing as swimming into a competition isn’t the right thing. I’m so glad you are reconnecting with the relaxation of swimming, to encounter joy again, letting it in. Splash on.
I couldn’t agree more, thank you for sharing and for the encouragement! 🙂
Love this. I’ve experienced similar feelings about playing the flute, which in my HS band days induced some of the stress/anxiety/competitive impulses that you experienced with HS swimming. It’s strange to rediscover these activities as an adult and rediscover the undiluted joy they can create.
“But it turns out I was a good swimmer. Like, record-breaking good.” is such an excellent pair of lines, too. So funny and smart.
Thank you for your comment, Courtney! I totally agree and am glad you can relate – the rediscovery is such a strange but healing thing!