Ever since I can remember, I have been swimming. It feels natural, like it’s part of my DNA. It sounds dramatic, but it feels true. When I jump in the water, I feel my stress slide off my body.
When I was in middle school, I joined the swim team. It was definitely different than my leisurely swims in the lake or jumping into the water with my aunt. It was hours in the water, going back and forth. It was smelling like chlorine even after a shower. It was having wrinkly hands after practice.
I am 5 foot 2 inches, so my build is not that of an Olympic swimmer, but I learned to be fast and use my size as an advantage. I corrected every little movement; how could I be faster, smoother, more graceful? I learned how to make my body shoot through the water when I came off the blocks. I learned when to breathe. I could do flip turns in my sleep. I would swim laps until I thought my heart would burst and lungs would collapse.
In high school, I swam in the Nebraska State Meet. I was swimming the 50 Free, 50 Butterfly, and 100 Free. I had my meet swimsuit on, my goggles were tight and my swim cap was aggressively clinging to my head. I walked onto the pool deck and smelled the chlorine and stress of the swimmers. We had all prepared for this moment. The night before, I ate my body weight in pasta that I could now feel rising to my throat.
The meet was hosted by a high school in Lincoln, Neb. I don’t remember the name because it wasn’t anything special. The pool and the locker rooms were dated. Before you walked into the locker rooms, there were pictures of past athletes, who probably walk down the halls reminiscing about the glory days. The lockers were rusty and had the initials of past romances. I felt like I went back in time to the 80s and would walk out to a crowd of mullets and ripped jeans.
I walked onto a pool deck full of swimmers and coaches pacing up and down the deck. Guys were wearing speedos, even though they shouldn’t. Damp towels were draped over bleachers, and water bottles were tossed to the side.
The blocks always seemed higher than usual when I stepped up for my race. All I could think about was how tall the swimmers beside me were. The butterflies were fluttering viciously in my stomach. I was scared I would false start. So many thoughts raced through my head as I stood there, waiting.
Just like that, my race was over. Sprints are a hard mental race. You never pull your foot off the pedal when you swim a sprint.
Shouts and whistles echoed down to the pool. Parents and coaches yelled, hoping their voices would penetrate the water and swim caps and ring in the ears of their swimmer.
The old high school pool was a place I came back to once a year. Twice as an athlete and twice as a proud sister cheering on her brother. That old pool is a place where I failed, succeeded and grew as a swimmer and a person. I walked past the same pictures, and it became nostalgic. I didn’t know who those people were, but I could always count on them being there, in that same mildew-scented hallway I would walk down.
Fields and pools aren’t just a place to perform. They are places where physical and mental battles are fought. You fight for better technique, faster times and an overall stronger body and mind. Stress is blown off with every hit, stroke or kick. In a moment, your self-esteem could go through the roof or fall through the floor. But you always go back. Day after day, becoming better, striving for excellence, holding yourself to higher standards. The lessons I learned in the pool apply to life. Life is a long race; sometimes you win and sometimes you throw up in the pool, but it’s how you take your failures and move on.
Next time you walk into a stadium, I hope you have a greater appreciation for the athletes and all the work they put in to get to this point.