At 7, swimming was just something my best friend was doing. So I copied her — I remember running through the red-carpeted halls of the Olympic Club, dipping our toes just slightly into the chilly, chlorinated water — “to test the temperature” — then after practice, buying strawberry-banana smoothies and chocolate chip cookies.

At 11, we switched teams. The KYSC pool was bigger. The water was heavier. Over the years, it became our pool. Our team. We owned the locker room. My locker was 133, hers 134. We knew what snacks stayed in the vending machine and which ran out quickly. The last shower on the left was the hottest. We made new friends. We found our events. 

Swimming became routine, a part of me. 4 days a week, toes curled over the edge of the starting block. Shimmy your right heel back to the edge of the block. Knees bent, fingers gripping the rough sandpaper, marked with the pool’s logo. Take your marks. 

Plunging into the cold water. Keep your streamline tight over your ears. Two dolphin kicks. One hand back. Raise your elbow. Don’t breathe on your first stroke. Find your rhythm. 

Stroke. 2, 3, breathe. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, breathe. Breathe less, you’ll finish sooner.

At 13, COVID hit. No more “Will you cap me?” No more “Eat my bubbles”. No more plunging. I found myself more anxious, not able to separate school from home from life. Less in-tune to myself — and how I was feeling. Less aware of what I said and did. I thought less before I acted.

Over time, I realized that swimming wasn’t just a sport to me. It was a crucial part of my lifestyle. The quiet whoosh of the water gave me room to think. Once I got into the rhythm of my stroke, I could let my mind wander. Only when my head came out of the water did I have to brave the outside world. 

During COVID, I lost my form of meditation. Swimming, I came to understand, was my way of taking space from those around me. When I was in the pool, there was nothing but me and my mind — exercise was a mere bonus. 

As a sophomore, swimming started again. It felt so good to be back — same locker room, same pool. Same hot shower, same vending machine snacks. But most importantly, I got my form of meditation back. 

Now a part of my high school swim team, I still curl my toes over the edge “to test the water”. I still crave a strawberry-banana smoothie and a chocolate chip cookie after my swims — though I have settled for protein bars. And I still shimmy my right heel to the back of the block before every race.

But I appreciate the cold plunge. I love the soft whoosh of water parting as I rhythmically pull myself through the water. And I appreciate the space swimming gives me to think — the space to be quiet.

Quiet has become important to me outside of swim, too. I find myself recognizing when to take breaks, when to be alone. 

7-year-old me would have never guessed swimming would be such a big part of my life. I would have never pegged myself as a swimmer. But through it all, swimming has changed me — and my life. 

So this is gratitude for my childhood best friend, who asked me to come swim with her. I will always crave the gift of the quiet and meditative space that the pool creates for me, even after I can no longer swim, and I will always have her to thank for that.