Overview

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Freshman year, I was the last one to touch the wall.

 

That meet still lives in my memory, the nerves, the cold water, the sharp echo of the buzzer. My first high school swim race. I launched off the block with more hope than technique, and within seconds, I knew I was behind. Every stroke burned. Every breath felt rushed. When I finally finished, the scoreboard confirmed what I already knew: 33.21 seconds. Last place.

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For a moment, I wondered if I should even come back.

 

I showed up to practice the next morning becauseI wasn’t ready to give up. There were days when I wanted to quit. Yet each time, I learned something new about patience. About accepting where I was, while still believing in improving my time. That balance between humility and hope became the rhythm I swam to, the same rhythm I carried beyond the pool.

 

My frustration turned into focus. I noticed small improvements: a cleaner stroke, a smoother turn, one less breath taken mid-lap. These weren’t the kinds of changes that earned medals, but they were mine. I learned to look for progress that didn’t show up on a stopwatch.

By junior year, I had dropped more than eight seconds off my first race, finishing the 50yd freestyle in 25.08. I wasn’t a star swimmer. Still, I had built something stronger than speed: a quiet confidence in my own perseverance, and a deep respect for the power of steady effort.

 

Everyone talks about the finish line. Yet swimming taught me that showing up, especially when behind, is its own kind of victory. I’ve learned to chase growth. And sometimes, beginning again is the most powerful finish there is.