I was swimming along just fine, regularly going for a mile or more, several times a week. I felt strong and sleeker than usual. Then, one day, I just didn’t feel like it and had to argue myself into going to the pool. I felt bloated and stressed and harried, and in my convincing conversation with myself, I reminded me that this is exactly the kind of time when it’s important to go ahead and get moving instead of eating half a cake in front of the TV. It’s probably a result of watching too much TV and too many movies, but on the first lap I kept waiting to start feeling better. I’m moving now. I complied. Kick in the soaring inspirational montage music and I’ll feel sleekness return. I’ll be out of the funk.
That’s not what happened. I don’t remember how long I swam that day—maybe a half mile, if I made it that far—and every single stroke was a struggle. There was no montage music. There was no lightening of my load. I never hit my swimming stride to feel sleek and smooth, gliding through the water. I felt like I was thrashing around, slapping and splashing, struggling to breathe.
I was praying the whole time. Praying as I convinced myself to go. Praying as I got into the pool and started thrashing. Praying for my stroke to even out. Praying for God to be with me and lift some of the burden I felt, weighing me down. I thought I was struggling with myself—with self-doubt and that strangely stultifying combination of physical laziness and overwork—but as I doggedly kept slapping the surface of the water, gasping for each breath, I started to think maybe it wasn’t me.
