Most of my childhood memories consist of the joys of swim meets. Me and my friends running around with our caps tucked into our suits and our goggles wrapped around our wrists, writing on each other’s arms and backs for good luck, and reciting tongue twisters while playing our version of patty cake. Although fun, these were all just pastimes before we got to do what we really enjoyed: racing. I relished in the feeling of diving off the block and the excitement of relays. 

I’ve always adored swimming, but I remember exactly when I started to truly love the sport. I must’ve been around nine or ten, standing by myself among the crowded deck of the Beverly Hills Athletic Club on meet day. I was staring at the 16 and up age group warm-up and my gaze had fallen on a particular teenage girl. The way she swam was so graceful. Her fast pace wasn’t accompanied by the chaos of choppy white water strokes, it was almost as if she glided on the water. It was mesmerizing. I wanted to swim like that. 

I remember just as vividly when I started to swim like that. I dove off the block like any other day, palm over hand as my fingertips slice through the surface. For a few blissful seconds, there’s no noise at all, and it’s just me and the water. I kicked myself into gear and found my rhythm. My strokes didn’t feel heavy, they moved with the same speed as the water’s current. Everything just felt right. I felt right. My stroke was perfect, and I was just as fluid as the water. It’s one of the best feelings in the world. 

But over time, girls got faster than me. I couldn’t keep up with them anymore, and the nerves consumed me. Each practice started to feel like drowning before I even hit the water. The echo of splashes and flip turns blurred into a roar in my ears, and my own breath became a metronome of panic. I watched my teammates glide through sets as I spiraled, barely keeping up. No amount of deep breathing or pep talks untangled the knot in my stomach. Every missed interval, every countless lap, every time I got yelled at for needing a break, twisted that knot tighter. 

My love for the sport kept me going. I decided I needed a fresh start, a new club. I transferred to the swim club my mom belonged to, but it only deepened my anxiety. The coaches barked more than they spoke. The second I touched the wall with a tight chest and limp legs, their voices came down hard. There was no room to explain, no space to say I’m exhausted. Every shout chipped at my love for the sport. 

Eventually, I didn’t even quit during practice, I quit before it even started. I stopped packing my bag. I stopped going to meets. I stopped checking the schedule. I stopped swimming. It’s not because I didn’t love the sport, but because I couldn’t survive it anymore. 

Freshman year, I sat on the sidelines, finally letting myself go up for air. Regardless, I was still surrounded by the sport. My friends continued swimming, and high school brought a new sport, water polo. Naturally, my friends pushed me to channel my love for swimming into this new sport. I always brushed off the suggestion lightheartedly, thinking of the turmoil of another swim set. 

But somehow, by the time sophomore year rolled around, my friends wore me down. Maybe it was their constant stories about practice, or the guilt of no longer being an athlete, but I ended up back on a pool deck.

I, naturally, was not in swimming shape yet, and my nerves had come back full force. But this time, when telling my coach I don’t think I could make the interval, she simply stated “That’s okay.”  It sounded like a foreign language. She let me swim at my own pace in my own space. I was able to slowly push myself without drowning. I could take a break at the wall without a second glance from coaches.

More and more every day, my nerves diminished whilst my strength and ease grew. I enjoy doing swim sets once more, even if I’m one of the last to finish, I finally enjoy coming to practice, and I leave feeling strong and refreshed. Water polo doesn’t just make me happy, it gives me lessons that don’t just stay in the pool. My hard days show me I can now push myself healthily, I can bounce back from failure and push the limits I thought I had. Water polo reclaimed my love for swimming.