The Hunt Beneath the Surface

Before I could walk, I was already chasing—

arms slicing silence, legs whispering to waves.

Water was my first language,

its blue grammar wrapped me in calm and purpose.

I did not swim in it—

I belonged to it.

It was my earth,

and I was its breath.

We were the new generation,

bright and unstoppable—

hunters of time, of touch, of glory.

Each lap was a heartbeat toward the dream,

each breath a promise to the gods of speed.

The Olympics shimmered ahead,

a golden mirage on the horizon.

Then came the stillness.

Metal, bone, and darkness collided—

and the hunt ended not in victory,

but in fracture.

Two years I hunted movement,

the miracle of standing,

the forgotten rhythm of a step.

While my team swam forward,

I chased shadows across mirrors,

watching the water remember me

when I could not remember how to move.

But even in stillness, I learned:

there are many ways to win.

I learned to walk, to dance,

to let the tide hold me without demand.

My medals became moments—

each small motion, a triumph.

I never caught the dream

that once burned at the end of my lane,

but I caught something truer:

myself.

Now, when I enter the water,

it welcomes me home—

not as a champion,

but as a survivor of the hunt.

And in that weightless silence,

I find peace—

a softer kind of winning.