“If she does a sport, she’ll be hungry and want to eat” – my dear parents as they looked at their 5-year-old refusing to eat
They didn’t expect to sign up for 9 years of competitive swimming. After countless swim meets, hours of practices, and hundreds of miles traveling, they had a daughter whose whole identity centered around the sport. A daughter whose discipline, work ethic, and attitude would be constructed and rooted from the sport. A daughter whose first love was swimming.
“Love”, defined by Oxford Languages, is an intense feeling of deep affection. Swimming was my first love. Every part of my existence revolved around my performances. My endurance, stamina, all the way down to my metabolism was connected to my relationship with the sport. I refused to walk out of a practice feeling unsatisfied with my efforts or feel as though I neglected my responsibility of pushing myself past the limit.
I had dreamed of becoming an Olympian from the age of 9. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, the dream felt farther and farther away the older I grew. If I had the effort, passion, love, dedication, and discipline, what happened?
“Sparky”
I was never naturally talented at the sport. In fact, after moving from Korea, I started from the slowest lane: Lane 16. It took 4 years for me to work my way up to the top 3 lanes and establish myself as someone. Eventually, I earned a nickname for myself: “Sparky.” As someone whose name has always been difficult to come up with a nickname for, it felt like I had gained a new identity. An identity that was purely my own, created from my own doings. The change in treatment from different coaches and teammates was expected. I craved the extra attention, time, and validation from those around me. I wanted to feel like I was an investment they were betting on.
But for 7 out of the 9 years of my career, it was rare if I was the one chosen. From the outside, it seemed like I was one of the favorites. In reality, I felt like I was treated like a checkpoint. With friends constantly pitted against me to being told that I could never get close to my goals purely because of my physical build, it was disheartening.
As a result, my constant need to perform dominated my actions. As a little girl, there was no greater priority than improving every time I entered a pool. The cycle of pushing myself, seeing results, and the adrenaline rush I would experience whenever I gained recognition for my efforts was addictive. I chased the high of reaching new personal records and accomplishing time cuts. I relished in the excitement of going beyond what was expected from me.
However, like with any flame or spark, it eventually goes out. Whether it is snuffed or flickered away on its own, some identities and personas are meant to end. By the time it was my junior year of high school, I knew I wouldn’t go the route of continuing in college. I had to choose between recruitment or going forward with the traditional route of applying as another student. And at that point, there was no spark in the sport. My spark had moved on.
Swimmer to Swammer
The transition from swimmer to swammer (a general term swimmers will refer to people who have moved on from the sport) was one marked with intense emotional turmoil but also closure. In all my years, there was one time standard or one time cut I pined after the most. A sectional cut. Ever since I witnessed a girl with a similar height as me accomplish one, I knew it was the one thing preventing me from retiring. I owed it to myself to give it my best shot one last time. Despite being burnt out, it would’ve been a betrayal to myself if I walked away without attempting another try.
I will be frank when I say there were times when I contemplated if it was all worth it. But I would look at my mom, the woman who always chose me. She was always rooting for me. From her meticulously preparing meals, to driving and attending every single swim meet, she invested in me. She believed I could achieve the cut, and in times when I doubted myself, she believed. Even if my love for swimming was dissipating, hers was enough for the both of us. It proved to be enough.
In true dramatic fashion, at the very last chance, I managed to achieve it. Effectively marking my goodbye, I will never forget hugging my mom afterwards. It was the ending we both deserved.
It felt relieving and assuring that despite my love being gone, the girl that was molded by the sport was still there. The girl that grew to be mentally and physically tough was able to accomplish the ending her younger self worked incredibly hard for. It was enough, it was satisfying, and it was the right way for the story to end.
The final lap
In a way, I was disappointed for the way I let the little girl’s dreams go. I accomplished enough to make her proud, but my need to always impress and perform made it difficult for me to come to terms with the end of my journey. I knew I had made the right decision, but a part of me would still wonder what would have happened if I continued through college.
It almost felt like I was mourning my past self. But in reality, she is still here. She’s present whenever I give my 110% toward any task I am thoroughly passionate about. She has simply outgrown what once shaped her and is moving forward to pursue her next interest.
I am grateful for the experiences, memories, and moments swimming gave me. I was privileged enough to experience them and was given the opportunity to create something memorable. It was my sole purpose for an era of my life that I look back fondly to. It has shaped me to be the person I am and I will be forever indebted to the sport for that.
Despite the water running cold at the end, it was filled with love, joy, and warmth for younger me. I hope to continue to make her proud no matter what I do.