They say that athletes die twice. When the time of being an athlete comes to an end, so does the high of competing, then the feeling of emptiness starts to sneak in, and the things you were running away from through sport are now gradually catching up. As an athlete, you are taught to play through the pain, always have that warrior mentality to fight shame from showing weakness and letting others down, pressure from teammates and coaches, and the fear of losing views on potential.
For eleven years, a drippy cold pool deck had been my home. I had grown so used to the goosebumps the chilly pool water gave me, the freezing temperatures of the dark and early morning, and the powerful smell of chlorine I still adore. I used to look forward to the adrenaline rush that ran through my body every time I dove off a block into my lane. Being able to swim had meant everything to me; it was my lifestyle.
“Home is where the heart is” (Gaius Plinius Secundus). Over the years, I’ve lived in many countries and countless cities, making new friends and saying goodbyes along the way. No matter where I was, swimming had always been the only consistent thing in my life. It is what made me feel alive and what I truly considered my home. Diving and breaking the surface of the water, entering the complete atmosphere of silence, and hearing my heartbeat, my eyes fixated and looking ahead on the boundless sea of glassy droplets. As my head glided beneath the surface, I became consumed by the water’s frigid embrace as if it were welcoming me home.
For eleven years in the pool, I was home—eleven years of laughter, triumph, tears, and failure. But just as quickly as those years went by, what I thought my future would look like, was just as quickly stripped away.
The hard part about an injury as an athlete is not the injury itself, but the aftermath, the mental battle. After suffering from several concussions, I was no longer allowed to compete or even fully practice, and that’s when my life changed forever. I was so angry and in denial, and in all honesty, part of me still is. As time went by, the deeper I felt the feelings of shame, regret, anger, and loneliness. I blamed everyone around me for ending the career that I had worked so hard for. There was no way everything was just over. How could it be? I hated myself. I hated myself for not knowing my purpose anymore.
My identity revolved around being a swimmer, I knew what I could achieve, and it was ingrained in who I felt I was. When I lost that, I lost myself, I lost my identity, and I lost my home. All I know is swimming. Who will I be without it? More than two years later, it’s still an unanswered question. I constantly feel as though I need to push, do more, and show others what I am capable of because, in life outside of sport, there are no discernible achievements. I struggle to set boundaries because nothing ever feels good enough. I’m constantly looking for approval or something to measure success. Behind me was a life defined and shaped by the particularities of sport. The highs, the lows, the sense of belonging, the pressure, the passion, and the purpose. Ahead of me is a life deprived of these qualities and experiences. A life that is uncertain of what is to come, reflecting over what has been. A feeling that time and ground is being lost that will never be made up. A sense that I am not in control of my destiny anymore.
Sports can ingrain in us a constant drive to do more and better. Know that no matter how your career may have ended, you are enough just as you are. Just because you have not found a clear purpose, it does not make you a failure.
I’m grateful for the opportunity swimming gave me and for allowing me to grow into the person I am today.
To all sidelined athletes, you are more than your sport, you are beyond the game, you are more than an athlete, and you are not alone.
