My earliest memories are of water. Due to complications with my motor skills at birth, I learned to swim before I learned to walk. I still have a diploma for being the youngest competitor at my swim club. After a decade spent as an artistic swimmer, and competing for my university swim team, I traded waterproof glitter and shiny swimsuits for fun nights on the dance floor in high heels.
Yet water has always been my happy place. Maybe, in a past life, I was the daughter of Neptune or Yamuna.
In Bali, I met a high priestess who taught me that water is the body of God. Perhaps that’s why I feel so safe when I’m submerged in the big blue. Water feels like home to me—an element that both fascinates me and whispers to my soul.
Recently, I returned to swimming lessons. I connected with a group of triathletes and enthusiastic open-water swimmers, and to my surprise, attending those classes brought me as much joy as cotton candy does to my daughter.
We’re preparing for an Open Water Swim this November. Swimming in open water is my way of reconnecting with nature, feeling closer to the divine, and understanding that we are just small pieces in the vast puzzle of the universe. Growing up by the Adriatic Sea, I never feared diving into its dark depths. My dad used to take us out on his boat and have us jump into the deep waters, reassuring us there were no monsters lurking below—no giant octopuses, pirate ships, or anything we imagined as kids.
The Adriatic is peaceful, friendly.
But the Pacific Ocean, where I live now, is a different beast. I have dreams of whales jumping over me and jellyfish pulling me into the depths. The variety of marine creatures I see daily reminds me of my smallness, filling me with awe—and sometimes fear—as I gaze across the horizon.
Despite this, I’m preparing, I keep showing up. I’m scared, and at the same time curious about Open Water Swim in the Pacific Ocean, away from the shores. In my mind, I try to make peace with the creatures of the ocean, asking them for guidance and protection instead of imagining up scenes from The Jaws.
At today’s swim class, we worked on endurance. To swim in the ocean, you need to cover twice the distance you think you can, with ease. Our coach, after a warm-up, announced the distance we needed to swim non-stop in under 30 minutes. My mind went into panic mode. I cursed the blueberry muffin I had for breakfast. I arrived angry, hoping to burn off that frustration with sprints, but it seemed today was about slow burn.
At first, my mind resisted, wanting to rush while my body urged me to stay steady, to save my strength. Swimming long distances is less a race and more a journey. Gradually, my mind shifted from anger and self-sabotage to focus: counting strokes, balancing breaths, navigating cramps in my toes, and watching sunlight dance on the pool’s floor.
And then, there was silence—just water and the blue line below. The distractions in my mind dissolved, and the anger in my heart melted away into the water and my controlled breathing. It was like being in a tunnel, seeing the light at the end—a moment of pure presence.
Suddenly, the coach singled: two more laps, go as fast as you can. I pushed forward, reaching the other side, meeting the goal. I took a deep breath, ready for the next set of exercises. By the end of class, I couldn’t even remember why I was angry.
In swimming, as in life, we keep on going. Our minds may sabotage us, creating imaginary monsters, resisting the change but with mindful breaths and a single small goal in focus, we can move one step at a time—bridging even the deepest waters.