Tattoos of memories

Today, after spending approximately the last week oscillating between “this might be really good for me” and “everyone at the pool is going to stare at me in a swimsuit,” I actually went swimming.

And I was terrified.

Not of the water, weirdly enough. More of the people. Or rather, the version of people my anxiety had created in advance: everyone apparently poised and ready to point at “fat person attempting exercise” the second I walked onto poolside.

Brains are exhausting sometimes.

But the thing is… none of that actually happened.

Nobody laughed. Nobody stared. Nobody cared.

And the lifeguards were genuinely lovely. They helped me into the pool, asked if I needed the lift, propped my crutches safely out of the way, and then brought them back over while I was getting out. Just very matter-of-fact, kind, competent support that made the whole thing feel so much less frightening.

Once I was actually in the water, something shifted.

I didn’t try to force myself into “proper swimming.” The plan was always just:

• move around in the water
• float a bit
• hold onto the side and kick
• reconnect with the feeling of being in a pool

And honestly? That turned out to be enough.

I spent about 45 minutes in the water altogether. A lot of floating. A lot of walking. A lot of holding the edge and kicking gently.

And then, somewhere in the middle of all that, I realised something quietly incredible:

I still remembered how to swim.

Not perfectly. Not elegantly. But enough.

Enough to swim four widths of the pool after not swimming for what is probably decades

Which feels slightly surreal to write down.

There’s something deeply strange and emotional about rediscovering an old skill your body has apparently been holding onto all this time. Like somewhere underneath the anxiety and stiffness and uncertainty, there’s still a version of me that remembers how water works.

Now, to be clear: this was not some magical triumphant return where everything felt effortless and healing and cinematic.

I hurt

I’m physically sore. Mentally exhausted. The pool was louder than I’d expected, and the changing rooms freaked me out in that uniquely overwhelming public-changing-room way.

It was hard.

And yet.

The amazing thing is not that it was easy.

The amazing thing is that it was hard and I still came home thinking:

I’m going again next week

Which feels quietly enormous.

A few weeks ago I was genuinely scared that trying to move more would end in disaster.

Instead, I’ve somehow become someone who:

• plays tennis voluntarily
• accidentally gives themselves sports-related muscle soreness
• and now goes swimming on purpose

Frankly, I find this development suspicious.

But also kind of wonderful.