When Hope Refuses to Sink

Would you wait twenty years for one seemingly far fetched hope to come true?

Would you keep holding on even after every setback, every heartbreak, and every logical reason not to?

Here’s the story of how I thought I shut the door on the love of my life — not a person, but swimming.

And spoiler – turns out the door was never closed, the pool was never covered, and the clock never stopped.

If you made a wish today, in hopes that you’d regain something you lost — something that felt quite unlikely and gave you every reason not to hope for it — and if you knew it would take 20 years for that hope to finally come true… would it still be worth it?

If you knew there would be ups and downs, and moments where you almost completely gave up… would you still hold on?

Would you think you’d let it go at times — only for it to resurface, eat away at you, and return with a vengeance?

What would mean so much to you that every time it returned, you’d lean in instead of forcing it away, shoving it down, or swallowing it whole?

And what if you never let it go — if you kept trying over and over, giving it your all, only to watch it slip through your hands? What if you started to feel the definition of insanity coursing through your veins… and yet, somehow, some tiny glimmer somewhere made you hold on anyway?

What if this brought pain, anguish, self-doubt? What if your trust was ruptured each time, and yet something in you still made you get back up, still made you refuse to fully let go?

Would it be worth it today — to be standing here, hoping for something that feels so far out of reach — knowing that’s what it would take?

Would you be willing to embark on a true twenty-year test of faith — to lose something, in hopes it might one day return?

The First Goodbye

Twenty years ago, after 18 months of trying and failing to rehab shoulder injuries after surgery at the peak of my swimming career, I made the painstaking decision to stop pursuing my sport — my first true love.

Even saying those words out loud now tightens my throat and brings tears. At the time, I didn’t realize the physical, emotional, and spiritual cost of ending my career long before I was ready. I didn’t realize how much of my identity and purpose was tied up in swimming.

So I just kept going. Kind of.

I channeled that identity into another sport, into another career. I clung to the hope that if I helped other swimmers retain or reclaim their sport, their identity, their purpose… maybe it would mend the holes in my own heart.

I didn’t consciously think this at the time — it was just where my beautiful, innocent, naïve mind led me.

It was valiant. Formative. Loving. Valuable.

But it didn’t last. Because deep down, I was giving away the very medicine I needed. I was being for everyone else the person I desperately needed for myself.

Not only did I go to physical therapy school on this mission — but also because I wanted to get myself back in the pool. I even designed my own rehab program, because the one I was given by a so-called global expert in swimming medicine not only failed me, it harmed me. Physically. Emotionally.

I vowed to do different. I gave so much to the athletes I worked with. But the truth was, I never grieved.

I tried to rehab my way back, and I got damn close. But no program — no matter how brilliant — could restore the trust I’d lost, or return me to the identity and purpose that lived in my bones.

Swimming was never just a sport. It was home.

Sinking into water is the one place I’ve always felt most myself.

Maybe it’s because I’m a fire sign — and swimming grounds me, calms me, and energizes me.

Ironically, it stabilizes me in a medium that never stops moving.

The Reclamation through Fire and Water

Ten years later, I reclaimed swimming in the most unexpected way — through the fire and flames of cancer.

On the brink of losing my life, I wasn’t as afraid of dying as I was of dying without having reclaimed this part of my Soul Story.

That reclamation through Fire and Water carried me through the hardest days and the moments where life was truly touch and go.

I don’t regret closing the chapter when I did in college — I’d fought the good fight, and at the time there was nobody who could have helped me the way I needed.

But a decade later, at a time where feeling fully alive felt like a distant hope – it was the hope of swimming that helped me return. 

This time I returned with not just physical capacity, but with full emotional and spiritual capacity. 

And here’s the wild thing: I haven’t done a single ounce of shoulder rehab since. I haven’t been diligent about keeping to the very program I designed.

I still have one repaired labrum (that has never quite felt “normal”) and one torn labrum. 

By all logic, I shouldn’t be able to do this, and I certainly shouldn’t be trusting my shoulders.

And yet, I can, and I do.

I’d done years of therapy on the physical level. Turns out, this only got me so far. No, I needed to rehabilitate on a deeper, less tangible, less seen way.

Back to the Water, Back to Myself

This summer, I returned again — after another long pause. 

The last time I swam consistently was 2017, at Swim Across America Atlanta, alongside one of the greatest role models I’ve ever known, named Grace.

Grace taught me that Hope has No Finish Line. That you can have every reason not to hope, and still, by Grace, find the brazen courage and the quiet love to sink in to Hope, never let go, and just keep swimming.

Swim Across America was what brought me back into the water, back home.

I thought I had reclaimed my swimmer identity then. I thought I was complete.

I hung up my cap and goggles. I’d gotten the spiritual and emotional closure I never got as a college swimmer.

Turns out, the Universe had another plan.

Because I hadn’t fully lived out this part of me. Not freely. Not without a goal, not without having to overcome something.

Just as a swimmer. Fully embodied. Sinking into the pool not to reclaim, but just because. 

Earlier this week I was midway through a lap as the sun beat down on me (outdoor swimming is the best swimming, prove me wrong).

I could feel the water, things were strong, things were flowing.

I wasn’t training for anything. There was no goal. I wasn’t overcoming anything. In fact, I just passed the 10 year mark since cancer diagnosis – and I’m truly “graduated” from that era of my life.

I was swimming just ‘cause.

This is how I felt as a young 6 year old who got last place in every race – doing it and loving it just because. (And also, for the post-meet late night treats at Pizza Hut)

This is how I felt when I swam at Duke when I was at the peakiest peak of my swimming career — having the time of my life, without a care, unaware of what was about to unravel in my body, my mind, and my life for the next 20 years.

When I touched the wall – I realized the importance of this moment. I could have just kept swimming my laps. But something beckoned me to stop and take it in.

Tears filled my goggles. My breath caught. I buried my head in my hands and prayed thanks. To Grace. To the Soul inside who never truly gave up — not once, not even when my mind convinced me that I had.

I mean, I guess that’s what you get for thinking. 😉

I don’t know how long this Swim Era will last. 

But I know I’ve returned to being a capital-S Swimmer. Not a Swammer. Not a former swimmer. Not someone who swims for exercise. Not someone who cross trains in the pool. 

But now, I’m a Swimmer not defined by times or outcomes. Honestly, I don’t even look at the clock.

And most distances over about 100 yards leave me gasping and feeling like I’m going to throw up — doing my best with one fully functional lung, several ribs and a collarbone that are missing, and half of a diaphragm that doesn’t work. 

Which, by the way – is all the more reason I “should” not be able to swim the way I am.

This brings me such a smile. I think back to when I sat down with my surgeons before they removed my tumor, and the Riot Act I read them about how they were – under no circumstances – allowed to make willy nilly decisions about which bones and muscles and tendons they were going to remove or not remove. 

Because come hell or high water – I was going to swim. 

Well, it turns out – the tumor had spread into a lot more tissues than they thought and a lot of things were removed that did not set me up for a successful return to swimming. But they did everything they could to give me the best chance possible.

But none of that matters. 

Because – despite no longer being fixated on the physical losses – being in the water feels like me. It feels like home. And that feeling – that is the manifestation of Hope – for coming home – coming full circle.

The Swim That Was Always Waiting

I think of that younger me, 20 years ago, who thought she was hanging up her cap and goggles for good. 

Who spent her senior year of college not having the storybook ending she’d always imagined – but instead dry on deck as a volunteer assistant coach at Duke, watching her teammates celebrate retirement while she quietly broke inside.

But as it turns out, I didn’t get that storybook ending, because I was never meant to.

I was meant to live this identity now — with honor, with trepidation, with hope.

The door was never closed. The pool was never covered. The clock never stopped. 

There were plenty of sinking moments in between. But it was in those sinking moments that I discovered who I am, who I always have been, and who I am becoming. 

A Swimmer. Not someone who is here to win races or medals. But someone who simiply loves to sink in, immerse, and feel the freedom and fluidity all around me.  Because the water is home.

Sink In, Listen, Swim

So if you’re a woman in midlife -- on the verge of creating or losing or hoping for something that feels out of reach (in your work, your body, your relationships, your athlete identity, your family) – what do you decide to do with that?

Do you hold on to even a little bit of hope?

Do you let it go and see what happens?

Do you do something in between?

Some things are meant to be set free forever.

Some return in their own time.

Some are meant to be actively restored – with you plugging away at it, bit by bit.

How do you know which is which?

By sinking in. By asking. By listening. 

By taking strokes and seeing what feels right. 

By sometimes swimming in the wrong lane.

By being so very present and receiving the wisdom of your Soul that often shows up in the most unexpected ways.

The truth is — you can’t know. Not now. Not in advance.

The key is to surrender the question. To hold on to hope and curiosity. 

To love the question itself, and – as poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote – live your way into the answer.

So — in the spirit of Hope — I hope that in 20 years, or less, or more…

That the fragile, unlikely thing you’re holding onto… the thing you have every reason to forget… returns.

I hope you take a moment to recognize it when it does. Especially if it shows up in an otherwise mundane moment, just like my afternoon swim in the sun. 

I hope that you notice it. That you sink in. Soak it in. Let it wash over you.

Maybe it will bring tears. Maybe it will bring joy. Maybe it will just bring a sense of Home.

And one thing I can guarantee – if you let yourself truly sink in and experience it, living into the answer will be excruciating in the best way.

That is what it is to fully live. To live for the hope of it all. To feel the fullness of what we dare to hope and dream for.

If you are the one willing to dream the impossible dream, to cling to the fragile thread of hope when everything says let go — this is your call forth.

Sink in. Keep swimming. The water is waiting.

Big love to you and who you're becoming and the Hope your Soul can't let go.

PS If something in this message struck a chord, I'd love to hear about it. Shoot me an email, message, or DM.