“You are so selfish.”
I can’t remember how to swim.
It’s been years.
When I was younger, I swam like a goldfish, played like a dolphin, and dived like a swordfish.
My body knew what to do before my mind ever caught up.
I loved the water—the freedom, the mystery—whether it was a tepid, chlorinated pool or the biting, salty shock of the sea.
I had freedom here.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot.
When you say I do, you imagine the fairytale of it all.
Sometimes fairytales are real.
Sometimes they’re a flipping nightmare.
I was desperate to be loved, so I forgot to love myself.
Forgot to assess what real love is.
Ignored the signs—
Do not dive.
No running.
I dove anyway.
I ran straight into fire.
No water could stop it, because I thought the pain was acceptable.
Normal.
The price of being chosen.
But today, after years of neglect, I remember me.
And I desire freedom.
“You are so selfish.”
I have never booked or planned anything just for me.
“You are so selfish.”
I couldn’t put weight on for years because of stress.
“You are so selfish.”
I don’t know who I am anymore.
“Have a great time though.”
I’m not going to go now.
I’m at the door—it’s make or break.
I’m too thin.
I don’t have a body.
What if I look more stupid than I feel?
What if… what if… what if…
The negativity is exhausting.
I’m still at the door.
Still at the periphery of choice.
I take a deep breath.
I don’t look back.
I put the key in the ignition.
And I drive.
The familiar smell of chlorine.
It’s been almost twelve years.
The noise.
The advanced swimmers.
The handsome lifeguard.
And I catwalk—well, it feels like it—right to the end of the pool.
I’m welcomed warmly by a young woman.
Out loud I say,
“I cannot swim.”
Inside I say,
I don’t know freedom.
The pool doesn’t feel tepid as I step in.
It feels cold.
Dismissive.
What are you doing here?
I repeat it to myself.
What am I doing here?
I try to think of an excuse to turn away.
But it’s too late.
I cannot.
She tells me to dip my head under the water.
I’ve forgotten my goggles—typical.
I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Breathe like you’re blowing out birthday candles,” they encourage.
I imagine celebrations from another life.
When I truly smiled.
When I played.
When I was happy and relieved.
Before I said I do.
Before I let go of my freedom.
I come up out of the water like a baptism.
I go down again without asking.
Then she tells me to kick.
I’m not just kicking.
I’m running.
Leaping.
Racing toward something else.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere free.
“You have a good kick,” she says curiously.
“Have you swum before?”
“Yes,” I say out loud.
“I just can’t remember how to swim.”
Inside I say,
I can’t remember how to be free.
She smiles.
“Okay. Take a few steps back and swim to the edge.”
“I can’t,” I protest.
“Believe,” she says.
I hold her gaze.
I nod.
I go under again—a second baptism.
And this time I feel it.
My arms remember.
My legs remember.
My body floats.
The water is no longer cold.
It’s familiar.
I feel it.
Freedom.
And I swim.
“I knew you could do it,” she cries with glee.
I can’t believe it.
I thought I couldn’t.
Inside I say,
I thought I couldn’t be free.
But I can.
Back in the water,
I swim like a goldfish,
play like a dolphin,
dive like a swordfish.
I am free.
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