I stopped swimming

You know when you’re going through something and people say: “this too shall pass”? Or “time heals all”? 

People always mean well – and I’ve offered these platitudes a million times myself – but I never really believed them when I was in the thick of something tough. Not truly. Not in my bones.

In my 20s, I hadn’t yet gained enough life experience to understand the concept of seasons. Good seasons and great seasons. Hard seasons and even harder seasons. Whenever I experienced a big shift in how I felt, I thought my identity was forever changed. I’d think things like: ‘I’m no longer that type of person, so I must be this type of person now.’ I’d feel confused about the person I used to be – where had she gone? Who was the real me? Was I a truer version of myself then or now? (I now know these aren’t helpful questions to ask because every iteration of me is true, but this wasn’t always clear to me). 

Last month, I wrote about Wintering and how I experienced big changes and challenges following the birth of both my children. Postpartum is a ride. The hormones alone are a lot to navigate, let alone the sleepless nights, drastic lifestyle changes, and you know – the responsibility of keeping a tiny, vulnerable human alive. 

Both my postpartum experiences were a wintering of sorts. They were the happiest of times and the hardest of times. There were moments that felt like pure truth – rushing to them when they cried, breastfeeding them back to sleep at 3 am, hearing their first coos, giggles, and words. But though my love for them burned bright enough to conquer the world, everything else felt foggy and uncertain. There were days I could barely remember what I liked to eat for breakfast, let alone what I wanted from my career, relationships, and future. 

Caring for a baby requires you to be in the present moment, taking it day by day. But here’s the pinch: the world around you marches on and continues to make demands of you. People forget you’re stuck in a time trap. You don’t exist in the way you did before: you’re the same, but you’re different. You hear echoes of your former self deep within you and you sometimes catch a glimpse of a woman you recognise in the mirror. You know she’s there but you can’t quite reach her. 

I used to love swimming in the ocean before I had kids. Not proper swimming – just bobbing around in the water on a hot sunny day. Delighting in the way saltwater makes you feel both free and held at the same time. Enjoying the way your skin tingles after a swim, how fresh and alive you feel even hours later. 

But when I had my first child, getting to the beach for a swim required monumental effort. I was no longer the boss of my own time. I’d get small, sporadic slices of my day where I could do something for me – and that something was often taking a shower or drinking a hot cup of tea. I couldn’t drag my baby to the beach and leave her on the sand while I frolicked in the waves and remembered how much I loved the ocean. If I got some time on the weekends when my husband was home, there was a list a mile long of other things I wanted to do. Taking a dip in the ocean was a tiny, insignificant part of my life compared to finding time to write, reaching out to friends, or keeping up with work. 

So, I stopped swimming. And the less I swam, the less I remembered how much joy it brought me. I figured I just preferred dry land – that maybe I never really liked swimming that much after all. Because surely if I loved it so much, I’d find a way to fit it into my life? Surely, if swimming was important to me, I’d never have let it go?

Early parenthood is made up of hundreds of these tiny sacrifices, these surrenderings of small joys. And when people would tell me “this too shall pass”, I thought they meant the sleepless nights. I didn’t think I would ever get the ‘me within me’ back – the me who could find time to bob in the ocean just for the joy of bobbing in the ocean. I thought she was gone forever. I couldn’t see that I was just in a season – a season of immense self-sacrifice. 

I stopped swimming, and I think some people might have noticed. Or, if they didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm for going to the beach, perhaps they noticed my lack of enthusiasm for going out to dinner, attending social gatherings, or generally being out anywhere after 9 pm. Maybe they noticed my hesitance to plan fun activities or let myself be in the moment. Maybe I was experiencing some kind of postpartum depression. Or maybe I was just grieving and adjusting to life without the small joys I’d grown accustomed to having. Maybe I just missed the ocean and what it represented to me: frivolous fun.  

I wish I could go back and tell everyone (myself included) that: I’m a little wobbly right now, I’m figuring some stuff out, I’m pressed for time – but please don’t take this as an indication of who I am, what I believe in, or what I want for my life. I’m at capacity, I’m doing a really hard thing, I’m figuring out what it means to be a mum, and this is a really intense season. Please keep inviting me to the beach, to the party, to dinner. One day soon, I’ll say yes.

So often, new mothers get left behind simply because they can’t keep up with a certain pace of life. Whether it’s at work, in friendship groups, or even in families, there’s a disconnect between what mothers want to do and what we can do. We just need time.

I stopped swimming for years, and on some subconscious level I worried I was betraying myself – was I losing myself in motherhood? The simple act of not wanting to go to the beach felt charged with shame. 

But the ocean didn’t mind. The ocean didn’t judge or worry. The ocean just kept doing its thing. And when I waded into the water at 7.45 pm the other night, I thought: there you are. Right where I left you. Let’s pick up where we left off, huh?

I stopped swimming, and then I started again, and the ocean didn’t need to analyse it, worry about it, or write a 1,000-word think-piece on it like I’m doing right now (that literally no one asked for). I liked swimming, and then I didn’t, and then I liked it again. And maybe life can be that simple.

The reason I went to the ocean that night was because I felt the calling, a stirring deep inside of me that said: you can go back to the ocean now. It’s time. It’s safe to do so. A new season is here: a season where you can start to integrate small joys again – a season where you have the capacity to just be. A season for bobbing in the ocean. Welcome, enjoy, and know you’re held.