Becoming an Individual

As I stood on the starting block during the last relay of the PCSC Conference Championship, tracking in my teammate’s strokes as I was preparing to dive in, all I kept telling myself was, “This is it.” This was the last race I would ever swim as a collegiate athlete. Perhaps this was the last race I would ever swim, period. My teammate took her last stroke into the wall and I was off. I had dedicated almost my whole life to this one moment—the moment I could thank my eight- year- old self for choosing to be a swimmer and never looking back. And 51.2 seconds later, it was over. At first, I smiled, thrilled and proud of all I had accomplished. And then, as I looked at all of my teammates—my family— all I could do was cry.

For 14 years I was a swimmer. I was “So and So, the swimmer.” And for some time, I absolutely hated that. But, now that it’s all over, what will they call me? What will I call myself?

            I’ve always known that there is more to me than chlorine perfume and a competitive nature. I’ve always known that it’s not fair that relatives only ask me, “How’s swimming going?” every time my family gets together for the holidays. I’ve always known that beneath the wet bun on top of my head and the awkward tan lines on my back, I am more than “So and So, the swimmer.” What I didn’t know is that I would have a much harder time finding who that girl—that girl who has been hiding behind a swim cap and goggles for the over half of her life— is. Furthermore, where does she belong?

Though the thought of not knowing who I am or where I belong is troubling, I find comfort in knowing that I am not alone. After dedicating years and years to practices, meets, games, competitions and races, many athletes struggle with finding their identities once their collegiate careers come to an end. In fact, many college athletes even struggle with depression during the transition from being a part of a team to being an individual. Fortunately, I cannot say that I feel even the least bit depressed, but the number of athletes who do struggle with post-athletic depression does not surprise me.

To know that I will never have to squeeze my body into a paper thin, but nonetheless suffocating racing suit might be relieving. But, to know that nothing can ever make my body and mind feel the same way that standing behind the starting blocks did is difficult to accept.  

I used to hate being labeled as “the swimmer.” Now, only two days into this surreal transition, I can only look back at that label with pride.