My pool has been closed for months. I have nowhere to go. The Newport Coast Community Pool—my sanctuary—was drained, its cement smashed and cleared away. I don’t know how they plan to remodel it or when it will reopen. All I know is I have nowhere to swim.
It might sound trivial. It may sound privileged. But you don’t understand—I need to swim.
When I swim, I don’t have to think. My body moves on instinct—fluid, certain. Everything falls into rhythm. I glide forward without resistance, without friction, and before I realize it, I’ve reached the end.
And I exhale.
I need that relief because I don’t know if I have any other healthy outlet for the stress that I carry. And it’s not just my own stress. I carry the weight of others, too—my clients, their families, my grieving friends, and the chaos my partner faces at work.
When I swim, I don’t think. I just go. I concentrate on counting laps and not hitting the wall. Before I knew it, I’ve swum a mile. Every spring, when I jump back in the pool, I swim a straight mile despite not swimming since last October.
Besides a glass of wine or two… a shot or two… a cocktail or two… It’s the only form of stress relief I have left. It’s the only healthy form of relief I have.
Now, there’s no relief. Days are spent carrying my clients’ stress. Weekends, I absorb the grief of my friends. And always, the silent weight of my partner’s struggle at work.
Days are spent carrying my clients’ stress. Weekends, I absorb the grief of my friends. And always, the silent weight of my partner’s struggle at work.
I sit at the desk. I sit on the sofa. I sit up in my bed, waiting to fall asleep. I don’t want to sit anymore.
My body aches to move, but there’s nowhere to go. No place to stretch, to breathe, to release the weight I carry. The stillness has settled into my bones.
Without the water to hold me, I’m sinking beneath everything I’m supposed to stay afloat for.
I’m drowning.