Finding Myself in the Deep End

Sam Carter was a guy who’d pretty much given up on mornings—or anything, really. He was 32, stuck behind a desk all day, coming home to a couch that knew his shape too well. Life wasn’t awful, just gray—like fog that wouldn’t lift. He’d scroll Instagram, see these jacked dudes flexing or marathon runners with their medals, and think, “Yeah, right. Not me.” Too late for that. Too tired. But there was this itch, you know? This quiet little voice poking at him, saying he wasn’t done yet. He ignored it mostly—until Mia showed up.

Mia was his loud friend, the kind who doesn’t take no for an answer. One Saturday, she hauled him to the community pool. “Just swim, Sam,” she said, tossing him these scratched-up goggles like it was no big deal. Swim? He hadn’t touched water since he was a kid, flopping around like a drowned rat. Standing there in these baggy trunks she’d dug up, he felt like an idiot. His brain was screaming—you’re too out of shape, you’ll look stupid, just go home. But Mia was already in, slicing through the water, yelling, “It’s not gonna bite, get in!”

So he jumped. Man, that first lap was a disaster. Arms everywhere, legs thrashing, water choking him. He grabbed the wall, coughing, thinking, “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.” Mia laughed, but not mean—just kept swimming. And that voice in his head? It growled, don’t you dare quit. So he pushed off again. Two laps. Three. He was awful—slow, sloppy—but he made it. And holy crap, there was this tiny buzz in his chest, like he’d just won a fight nobody else saw.

He went back. Not every day—he wasn’t that guy yet—but twice a week, then three. At first, it was pure stubbornness. He’d stand there shivering, staring at the water, telling himself, “You’re not a quitter.” Some days, he wanted to bolt—what am I even doing here? I’m not some Olympian. But then he’d splash in, and the water didn’t judge. It didn’t care about his gut or his excuses. It just said, move. And he did. Stroke after stroke, he started feeling it—this rhythm, this quiet power. It wasn’t about speed; it was about not stopping.

The real stuff crept up slow. One time, he was at work, some jerk boss piling on deadlines, and instead of losing it, he heard the water in his head—push, pull, breathe. He calmed down, handled it. Nights got better, too—he wasn’t tossing and turning, just out cold, dreaming of waves. His jeans fit looser, sure, but that wasn’t the win. It was how he felt—like he could take on more than he thought. Even the little things, like not dreading Monday mornings anymore, started adding up.

There were still bad days. He’d drag himself to the pool, muttering, “This is pointless.” The voice would creep back—you’re too old, too slow. One afternoon, he almost walked out. Sat in his car, keys in hand, staring at the rain streaking the windshield. But something pulled him back—maybe Mia’s dumb grin in his head, maybe that buzz he couldn’t shake. He went in, swam anyway, and halfway through, it hit him: this was his thing. Not Mia’s, not some fitness guru’s—his. One night, pool empty, sun dipping low, he just kept going. The water glowed orange, and he laughed out loud—pure, dumb joy. He wasn’t fast or ripped, but he was alive. That’s what got him.

By February 22, 2025—yeah, right around now—he was different. Not a new guy, just… more Sam. He’d walk into rooms taller, crack jokes without second-guessing, tell Mia, “You started this, you know.” She’d smirk, “Nah, you did.” And she was right. The pool didn’t fix everything, but it woke him up. Each lap was him saying, “I’m still here.” And damn, that felt good.