In what feels like the blink of an eye, I transitioned from being a national champion swimmer and a collegiate coach to becoming the mother of an 11-year-old boy who just joined the swim team.
Time used to be my ally; now, it often feels like an adversary.
My son, Alex, started swim lessons at the local YMCA in Burlington, Vermont, when he was just 2 years old. Back then, he vowed never to join the swim team—no racing for him! He repeated that promise every year, slowly moving through the swim program. Even during our time in Abu Dhabi last year, he continued his leisurely progress at the Gulf Swim School, steadfast in his anti-racing stance.
From the moment he was born—taking nearly 36 hours to arrive into the world—Alex has been a non-racer. I once joked with my coaching team at James Madison University that I had given birth to a distance swimmer instead of a sprinter.
Then, just before we left Abu Dhabi in mid-June, Alex unexpectedly announced his desire to join the swim team once we returned to Vermont. As soon as he spoke those words, I wasted no time signing him up on the YMCA website.
“BOOM! You’re in, kid!” I exclaimed, fighting the urge to lift my laptop like a trophy.
Watching Alex’s first practice sessions was mesmerizing. His natural endurance shone through as he swam lap after lap, managing to maintain a steady pace even when fatigue set in. He may have collided with lane lines and fellow swimmers a few times, but he shrugged it off like a pro. His dives off the starting blocks resulted in some belly flops and knocked goggles; he wasn’t exactly a fish, but he was adapting.
On the evening of June 23, 2015, the moment I had been waiting for—albeit without expectation—arrived. Alex was ready to swim in his first meet, a small smile gracing his face as he approached the starting block for the 50-yard backstroke. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized how far we’d come. My responsibilities that night were twofold: to be Alex’s mom and a timer for the event.
The other parents at the meet had no idea of my athletic background—Florida State High School Champion, National Record Holder, and Olympic Trials Qualifier. As I learned how to operate the stopwatch, I kept quiet about the years I had spent obsessively tracking every millisecond.
During the race, Alex’s strokes were steady and consistent. He mostly stayed in the center of the lane but made the rookie mistake of turning onto his stomach halfway through, which led to his disqualification. I felt the urge to challenge the official, but reminded myself that swimming—like life—can be unforgiving. I choked back tears, reflecting on how the lessons learned in the pool had shaped my life and how they would likely do the same for Alex.
Next up for Alex was the 50-yard breaststroke, an event I had excelled in during my own swimming days. He beamed throughout the race, even though he finished last. I was grateful to see other swimmers wait for him to complete his swim before leaving the pool. Unfortunately, he was disqualified again for not touching the wall with both hands, a rule that seemed trivial to him.
I teared up again, not just for his disqualifications but for his unwavering satisfaction with his performance. My thoughts drifted to my parents, who stood by me through two decades of highs and lows in swimming. My mother, who took me to early morning practices and swim meets while juggling her work and home life, and my father, who remembered every single one of my times, were both on my mind. He had passed away due to complications from Alzheimer’s, and now I found myself in his place, memorizing my child’s times and hoping they last.
For his final race, Alex prepared for the 50-yard freestyle, my signature event. This sprint is the swimming equivalent of a dash on land, where victory can be decided by mere inches. I had dedicated countless hours to shaving off tenths of seconds to become one of the best. As Alex approached the block, he paused to tell me he was ready for a hot dog. Yet, he still managed to swim well, finishing next to last—this time without disqualification.
I embraced him, repeating, “I am so proud of you.” More tears flowed. I had forgotten to clock the time for the competitor in my lane and used that as an excuse to step away. Another parent took over the timing.
Alex brushed off my compliments as he headed to the snack bar. I rummaged through my wallet, finding just enough coins for a hot dog. I chuckled at the absurdity of being at a pool in Vermont, reflecting on our recent trip from the UAE to India to see the Taj Mahal. I left behind a Rupee as a tip, and Alex laughed at my antics.
Who knew I’d shed so many tears at a children’s swim meet? But I had devoted my youth to swimming and speed, and now I was witnessing my child begin his journey into those same exhilarating yet challenging waters.
In summary, this heartfelt narrative captures the transition from being a national champion swimmer to supporting my son as he embarks on his own swimming journey. It highlights the emotions tied to both personal memories and new experiences as a parent.