Learning to Float Again

I used to love going swimming in the summer when I was a kid. I grew up in Las Vegas, so truly the only thing we could do outside in the 120 degree heat was swim. Since I didn’t have a pool in my backyard, my sister and I would go to our neighbor’s pool or a friend's house. Sometimes we would even go to the pool at the Mandalay Bay and spend a whole day there. Some of my best memories were pool days with my family and friends — spending hours in the water making up funny stories, eating poolside chicken fingers and just forgetting about anything else going on in the world.

Then I grew up, and all of the sudden the idea of going to the pool drastically changed. Instead of the carefree energy that going to the pool exuded, it turned into this focus on how my body looked and suddenly feeling incredibly insecure in my own skin. I could no longer just throw on a bathing suit without a care in the world. I became hyper-aware of every part of my body — which made me want to never expose myself in a bathing suit again. 

Things only got worse after I was diagnosed with cancer at 15. On top of my hair growing back in uneven clumps, my body was covered with bruises and scars. I felt like a walking picture of a teenage cancer patient. One time a waiter even mistook me for a boy. It felt like my femininity was forcefully ripped away from me. So I stuffed all of my bathing suits in a drawer and stopped going to the pool. I couldn’t deal with the idea of having all of my trauma on full display. Aside from the occasional beach trip or vacation, I didn’t really swim for several years. 

It wasn’t until last month that the idea of going to a pool crossed my mind again. I had just gone through a breakup, my best friend moved away and I was still dealing with all of the repercussions of my heart failure and cancer treatment. I felt more lost and alone than I ever had before. What do you do when your life feels so out of control, you feel incredibly lonely and nothing makes sense anymore? Go to the pool, duh. Without thinking — otherwise I knew I would end up not going — I threw on my bathing suit, grabbed my journal and a towel and walked down to my apartment pool.

Swimming with my dad, mom and sister :)

I felt a sense of relief when I didn’t see any other person there. It was just me and my thoughts. “Oh boy, this will be interesting,” I thought. After writing in my journal for a few minutes, I finally braved my way to go sit in the pool. Instantly my head filled with fears of someone walking by and thinking I was weird. But I pushed everything away because I just had this overwhelming urge to get in the water.

The second I did, I felt everything get so much lighter after feeling so weighed down. The thoughts of loneliness, cancer, my heart — all of it just drifted away. I stared down at the water and literally pictured all of my fear and anxiety bleeding out of me and being drained away. It was strangely beautiful. For the first time in so long, I felt grounded and at peace. It brought me back to the feeling of splashing in the water when I was a kid and how I didn’t care about anyone watching. After cancer having taken some of that childlike innocence, it felt good to feel like a kid again. When I got out of the pool and went back to my apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My ECMO scars were on display and all, but for once I didn’t care. I realized my scars are a part of me whether I like it or not. I don’t have anything to hide anymore.

So, I’ve kept going to the pool. Mostly on the weekends since they seem to be the times that my fear and anxiety spiral the worst. Every time I go in, the load on my mind and body does lessen. It’s like magic. Even though I know the worry still exists, it’s nice to have at least an hour where I feel weightless. Like nothing is tying me down or holding me back from just being unabashedly myself. It is becoming a part of a ritual where I am regaining my strength and sense of self back in recovery. Maybe the pool still does have a magical quality like it did when I was younger. Except now, it is my place of healing.