It took me nearly a decade to get back in the pool, after promising myself I would never swim again
For years, I would start every morning with a good cry. My alarm would go off at 4:45am – the latest I could possibly leave it – and I would sit at the end of my bed and sob for a solid few minutes. After that, I’d get up, climb into my togs, throw on whatever clothes were laying at the end of my bed, clean my teeth, grab a drink bottle, and jump in the car. I’d drive through the Gold Coast streets utterly miserable, looking at the houses still cloaked in darkness with envy as I thought about the people who were most likely still inside, asleep. I hated those people.
I’d pull up to the swimming pool, then stand next to my gear as I rolled my hair up and shoved it into a silicone bathing cap. This usually took a few minutes, and as I would be yanking the strands into place, I’d be staring at the still water divided into lanes with plastic ropes. I hated that water. In fact, for a massive chunk of my life I hated everything about swimming. I hated the early starts, I hated the darkness, and I hated the smell of chlorine that never seemed to leave my skin no matter how hard I scrubbed.
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