As a child, I took swimming lessons but never truly learned the skill. Fear took hold of me, and I eventually stopped trying. Perhaps it was the jellyfish sting I experienced in the Chesapeake Bay that first instilled dread. Or maybe it was witnessing my younger brother nearly drown in a motel pool, with my father—who also couldn’t swim—jumping in to save him. Ultimately, my grounded mother had to extend a pool pole to rescue both of them.
When my own children arrived, I was determined that they would not merely survive in the water. My husband couldn’t swim either, so it was vital to me that my kids learned to save themselves. I enrolled my daughter, Mia, in swimming classes throughout preschool. However, by the end of the sessions, she had retreated so far that she wouldn’t even dip her toes in the water.
“You don’t have to go anymore,” I finally told her.
“Thank you so much, Mommy,” she replied, wrapping her arms around my neck.
A few years later, I attempted the same with Mia’s younger sister, Lily, but I gave up more quickly this time as Lily too lost interest. Those heartfelt hugs were bittersweet; I envisioned my daughters growing up feeling like outsiders, much like I had.
Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, both Mia and Lily discovered their love for swimming and taught themselves how to do it. I vividly recall the day Mia sprinted toward the pool’s edge, let out a joyful shout, and leaped into the deep end without hesitation. Normally, I might have scolded her for running, but the realization of my own inadequacy washed over me, and tears streamed down my face as I stood in the hot tub. Thankfully, no one noticed as I scrambled for my sunglasses, burying my face in a book.
Later that year, we vacationed in Hawaii, where our friend Sarah, an avid swimmer from the North Shore of Oahu, arranged a kayaking trip for her and Mia. It was a breathtaking experience, but I felt a wave of panic as Mia paddled away into the horizon. When the kayak returned, Lily insisted, “My turn.” Without asking for my permission, she swapped places with Mia and set off to sea while I feigned calm on my beach towel.
When they returned, Sarah asked if I wanted to join. Terrified, I thought of a million reasons to decline: I could drown, get water up my nose, ruin my hair. But images of myself stuck on the shore, forever the observer with a forced smile, flashed through my mind. In a daze, I grasped Sarah’s strong shoulders and asked, “Will you be able to save me if I need it?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
I slipped on the life vest and climbed into the kayak. Before long, we were laughing and paddling together, the strength of the ocean beneath us. I turned to see Mia waving from the shore, and I waved back. When I returned, she rushed to me and hugged me tightly, understanding the significance of my leap into the water.
Despite the experience, I still didn’t learn to swim that summer or the next. After my husband and I separated, two years later, my daughters and I joined the local YMCA. It was there that I took my first swimming lesson in thirty years. My hair got wet, I inhaled water, yet I didn’t drown. However, I still didn’t learn how to swim. Life—divorce, work, and parenting—got in the way, and I never completed my lessons.
Until now, I believed I was leaving my children a legacy of failure when it came to swimming. For a time, they seemed to mirror my fears. Yet, both of them eventually mastered swimming. How could this happen? Perhaps I might still learn to swim one day, but at this stage in my life, it’s equally likely I won’t. I no longer carry the shame of not knowing how to swim because throughout my life, I’ve made the effort to try. My daughters witnessed my attempts, and I’ve come to realize that the most valuable legacy I can impart to them is the importance of effort. I have succeeded in that regard.
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In summary, while I may not have achieved my own goal of swimming proficiency, I have instilled a spirit of perseverance in my children, which is the true essence of success.