Bokelskere.no

The water feels infinitely safer than the pool deck. I strap my goggles on and I’m in my own world, held inside by the tight silicone cap. Sometimes I wonder why I’ve always felt safe in the pool, so exposed in my swimsuit, despite all the difficulty I’ve had with my body. But this—this feeling I have in the water—this is why. When I swim, the only parts of my body I can see are my hands—and that’s usually only out of my peripheral vision and only if I’m watching for them. Ninety-nine percent of the time, when I’m swimming, I’m just swimming. I am the act of swimming itself, and that’s it. I get to disappear into the movements, the water, the feelings. I don’t have to be a body or a gender. I can just swim.

I sink into this, listening carefully to the rush of the water and the way my hands slice into the waves created by all the other swimmers around me. I’ve discovered over the years that focusing on how the water feels rushing against my skin, instead of focusing on the exact times I want to achieve or the people around me, actually makes me swim faster. Mom calls this a “mindfulness practice.” I call it swimming.