My first swimming medal is misleading. And I’m thrilled to have received it. Not because I trained hard and outswam my
peers (full disclosure: I was dead last), but because I was scared to race and
did it anyways.
I was nervous, terrified even, of competing in a sport I haven’t
been doing that long, don’t think I’m that good at, and would be subject to the
judging eyes of spectators, coaches, officials, and my teammates.
Yes, I’ve competed in various individual and team sports
over the years, but the newness, my lack of confidence and overflowing
self-doubt plagued me as I packed my suit, snacks, and sandals for the day: my
start resembles a controlled bellyflop, my turns are a comic work-in-progress,
I am an older athlete, there were few to none registered in my division.
But I dutifully drove to the pool in a torrential rainstorm
that mirrored my roiling guts. I asked
my coaches and teammates dumb, obvious (to them) questions in an attempt to
still my nerves. Yet I marshalled for my
event near tears with nerves, with my swim bestie, an athlete half my age,
confidently adjusting her cap beside me.
I settled down when I stepped on to the blocks. I’d dove off these during warmup. I have practiced starts dozens of times in my
home pool. The familiarity was
comforting. First whistle. Second whistle. At the horn, we were off in
to the glacial-temperature water. And I
swam hard. Like I meant it, like I
wanted it, like no one was watching.
I touched the wall and looked up at the clock – 15 seconds behind the
fastest swimmer, but TWO WHOLE SECONDS off my previous personal best time.
Showing up, racing, and finishing was alone a feat worthy of celebration, but a personal best time - that validated receiving a medal.
