Lessons in courage, chlorine, and jumping in scared
There are a plethora of reasons why I really, truly hate swimming.
One of the more obvious ones? I am incredibly self-conscious in a bathing suit. I’ll wear the one-piece, sure — but my rounded belly and soft thighs are still out there for the world to see.
But honestly, that’s not even the main reason I hate swimming.
I hate getting wet.
I hate being cold.
I hate taking off my glasses and not being able to see a thing.
I hate the clingy feeling of wet spandex suctioned to skin.
I hate trying to change afterward, when your damp skin makes every piece of clothing stick and tug.
I hate pulling a shirt over wet skin and getting those splotchy, soggy spots.
I hate the smell of chlorine. I hate raisin fingers. I hate the drip-drip-drip of gross pool hair down my back.
I hate the barefoot shuffle in public spaces. (I’m a socks-at-all-times kind of person.)
I hate ruining my hair and makeup.
I hate the way the cold lingers on your skin long after you’ve dried off.
Swimming, for me, is a special kind of misery.
So why — knowing all of this — did I sign Caleb up for Water Babies? Why did I commit to five weeks of locker rooms, pools, and discomfort?
Because of my son.
Because of that voice in my head that says:
“Do the things you think you can’t. Show him how.”
A coworker with a daughter invited us to join them for the class. I agreed, reluctantly — not because I suddenly started liking swimming, but because this is what motherhood asks of us sometimes.
We do things we’d never choose to do on our own. We get uncomfortable, we show up anyway — for our kids.
We do it so they can have fun, sure. But we also do it to model something bigger: that life happens outside your comfort zone. That fear doesn’t have to be a stopping point. That courage doesn’t always feel bold — sometimes it feels like pulling on a damp bathing suit and pretending it’s fine.
I’ve done this before. I spent three semesters in music class singing and dancing with my son, even though both of those things make me want to disappear. I sang quietly, danced awkwardly, and kept showing up. Maybe I showed him it’s okay to be silly.
I once asked for a meeting at work that terrified me. My voice shook the whole time. But I spoke up. And eventually, I got the promotion I’d worked for. Maybe I showed him that bravery doesn’t mean you aren’t scared — it just means you don’t let the fear win.
And now, here we are again.
Another small act of courage. Another moment that’s not really about me at all.
So I’ll step into that cold water. I’ll blink through the blur. I’ll smile for him.
And even though I hate swimming with every fiber of my being…
I’m still diving in.
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