It was cold. It was dark. And I couldn’t help my smug smile. Icy water dripped down my wet hair onto the towel tightly wrapped around me, sending goose bumps down my arm. But I didn’t care, because the cold breeze paled in comparison to the frigid pool water two feet ahead of me. I watched the hands clutching at the lane lines, heard the deep heaving gasps of my teammates in the few precious seconds before the clock told them to dive back in, all from the safety of my little plastic chair on the pool deck. I watched a pink cap slip beneath the surface and saw the pool light over my head pulse in the corner of my eye. It took me a while to realize something was wrong.  Light shouldn’t pulse. By this time, the pool light had grown bigger and brighter, like a butterfly erupting out of its cocoon to fly straight into the eyes, blinding me. I can’t see anything. But it was ok because humans have 5 senses for a reason. Without sight, there was still— I can’t feel anything. I can’t move. Every medical T.V. show I’d ever seen ran through my head. What did they always tell the patients? Don’t panic, just breathe. Just breathe… why can’t I breathe? That was when I decided it was an appropriate time to panic, as did my coach, who had also noticed something was wrong. The next few minutes were filled with the rasping gasps of my desperate attempts for air, my coach’s frantic voice saying words I couldn’t comprehend, and my concerned teammates rubbernecking around the diving blocks, trying to see what was happening. The sound of sirens in the distance pierced through the silence of a quiet, cloudless night, rushing to what was supposed to have been just another swim practice.

I’ve swum all my life. I was paddling in the unsanitary community pool before I could pronounce “freestyle”. Swimming was my life. My swim team was my second family; chlorine was my perfume. From the 4 a.m. winter practices in the frigid pools, to the 72 hour meets in the scorching sun, the only thing I didn’t enjoy was the series of exercises done outside the pool infamously know to swimmers as “dryland”.

Dryland was just a constant reminder of why I swim, and would never compete in any sport on land.  But as fate would have it, that’s exactly what I would end up doing. One fateful evening, halfway through an unexceptional swim practice, my hands and feet grew numb and I started itching like crazy. I got out of the pool with hives all over my body, swelling like Aunt Marge Dursley on the receiving end of Harry Potter’s wand and anger. My coach had me sit on the deck to rest. Draped in my warm parka, I silently gloated over escaping the torture the rest of my team was still enduring, not all that concerned about the swelling or hives. The next thing I knew, I was in an ER with my pants down, getting shots in my butt. I’d had an anaphylaxis attack that had lead to my trachea contracting. That, along with the swelling in my mouth and throat, had effectively blocked off my airway. My resulting panic attack hadn’t helped the situation either. The following months were filled with doctors’ appointments, urine samples, and blood tests that never yielded any results, but did lead to a consensus that swimming wasn’t something I should do anymore. I didn’t readily accept that. Swimming was something I’d done forever, and like anything, it had its ups and downs. There were times I would tell my mom I was quitting swimming to take up golf. There were days I would stand on the deck, half-awake and suppressing yawns as I watched the sun begin to rise. But I always ended up there on the deck with my goggles, on good days and bad days, and I wasn’t going to let some petty allergy stop me. That was the valiant plan. That was the inspirational speech I gave myself in the shower that night.

As courageous as I was preaching to my shampoo bottle, that petty allergy did affect me. Physically, my body was a mess. My friends started asking if I was okay and telling me I looked like I had died. I had large patches of red, scaly skin snaking around my limbs. I looked like I could have been the origin story for a failed superhero movie—Captain Chameleon. Or the Incredible Iguana.

Mentally, I definitely wasn’t on the cusp of becoming a superhero. I made half-hearted attempts at practices—the practices I bothered to show up to, anyways. I still hated doing dryland exercises, but the allure of the pool a few feet away wasn’t there anymore. I let this continue for about a year before I decide I’d had enough after spending Christmas Day in the ER peeing in a cup. I was tired. I didn’t want to put on a swimsuit to expose the patches of red that hid safely behind my t-shirts and jeans. Still, it wasn’t an easy decision to carry out. I was quitting something I’d dedicated so much time and effort to, and something that has really impacted me. Swimming has given me so many invaluable life skills and friends, but learning how to deal with all that ending has taught me just as much.

Quitting swimming wasn’t easy, but it opened other opportunities for me. I had a friend, a senior at my high school, who had won State Championships that year for badminton. She introduced me to badminton, and I played my first match against a 7-year-old…it ended 21-1. However, embarrassing the game was, that experience was when I discovered I enjoyed badminton. I figured I would enjoy it even more if I didn’t get destroyed by a girl half my age and a third my height, so I purchased a badminton net that I could assemble myself and reserved a racquetball court at LA Fitness every day. I set up my badminton net in the racquetball court and just hit one shot over and over again until I perfected it. The discipline and perseverance and responsibility that swimming taught me easily converted to badminton.

I had been reluctant to quit swimming even when it was apparent that it wasn’t working anymore because I hadn’t wanted to waste everything I’d accomplished up to that point. I hadn’t wanted to start over again on square one with a new sport. What I’ve come to realize is that nothing we do is ever wasted. My badminton foundation is already laid out because of the habits and experiences I’ve gained from swimming. I also hadn’t wanted to be a “quitter” just because it was getting hard. We often associate quitting with failure. We commend those who carry on when the times get tough. I had wanted to be strong and not take the easy way out by quitting. That’s when I realized that I had already been taking the easy way out—by not quitting. It was easier to put my body in autopilot and just stay on the set path. I didn’t have to take a risk and venture out of my comfort zone. Deciding to quit swimming doesn’t mean I’m weak; it means I’m brave enough to change what isn’t right. I’d always planned to swim on my high school team, but if I’d held onto that dream, I wouldn’t be on the varsity badminton team this year. I’ve learned that being able to let go of something takes just as much strength as sticking with it. Sometimes, it’s just time to close the door on one part of your life and open a new one.