What It Took to Overcome My Fear of Swimming in My 40s

A surprising amount of Americans can’t swim. I was one of them—until I gentle-parented myself into the deep end.

Parents were only allowed on the indoor pool deck for the last five minutes of swim class each week—but that was all it took. Tears filled my eyes as I pointed my camera at my then-Kindergartener in the water, and an overwhelming relief rushed into my heart.

The relief that my daughter was learning an essential survival skill—and wouldn’t grow up like me—flooded me every Thursday at 3:55 p.m. at my local YWCA. When Griffin went underwater for a couple seconds one week, I clapped and cheered and sniffled. When she did a glide toward her instructor another week, I batted away happy tears.

And holy baby shark, the day she did a handstand underwater? I stifled a sob.

The joy of learning to swim—or rather, watching my child do so—has been a striking pendulum swing from the instant collywobbles I remember as a kid in or around the pool. For a few decades now, I have loathed the idea of submerging myself in water unless it’s into a hot bath at a fancy hotel.

So it’s been a foreign and fulfilling experience to see my daughter become more capable than her over-40 mother. She is not a fish, like how some adults describe their kids. Progress has been slow at times, but she’s getting there, and she looks forward to her classes.

What’s that like? Actually wanting to swim?

Five minutes at a time, I watched and wondered.

I imagined what it was like to be my daughter in the pool, instead of what it was like to be me: unable to think straight while my nose immediately sucked in water that I swear burned for days. As a kid, I despised water on my face, goggles were untrustworthy, and floating on my back seemed physically impossible. I just couldn’t get over how unnatural I felt in water—and my baseless, “I-can’t-do-this” fear compounded until it felt like a fact. 

My shortcomings had perplexed my parents, who did enroll me in a (failed) swim class at one point. We were also lucky enough to have an in-ground pool in the backyard of my Midwestern childhood home. My brother, exactly 54 weeks older than me, was like a happy, splashy fish shouting “Cowabunga!” as he hurled himself into the water during the summers. I was like a soggy, scrawny cat circling the pavement and hissing at the petite waves. 

They all figured something would eventually click for me. My childhood was defined by 12 years of training in competitive gymnastics—which by most standards meant I possessed an above-average level of fearlessness. But they were wrong. When my teenage teammates “retired” from gymnastics, they went on to compete as divers and were recruited to Division 1 colleges. I joined the high school cheerleading squad. I could do backflips across the entire basketball court, but I couldn’t have retrieved a ring toy from the pool’s bottom if you had offered me a full-ride scholarship.

A couple more decades went by with zero clicks. I didn’t even think to pitch “learning to swim as an adult” when I was an editor at a fitness magazine (literally Fitness, R.I.P.), despite the exclusive resources and experts I could have tapped. Living in Manhattan for 15 years was pretty agreeable for a non-swimmer, actually. I didn’t have to face any fears when I was surrounded by skyscrapers and my feet were on concrete.

But then I became a mom and settled down in a Massachusetts seacoast town called Newburyport…and the waves are everywhere. Boating is a lifestyle for many locals, we scooter along the river when going to the playground, and the beach is a breezy 10-minute drive through town. Sometimes, there are accidents in or around the water—heartbreakingly, a handful of those emergencies have turned into tragedies.

According to the CDC, nearly a quarter-million people globally lose their lives to drowning each year. In America, 15 percent of people are like me, never having learned how to swim, per a Red Cross study. But, interestingly, of the 85 percent who report they do know how to swim, barely half of them can actually perform the life-saving benchmarks like going into water above their heads.

That’s why making sure my kids can swim has been an extracurricular priority. I’ve been consistently taking them to swim lessons, both relentlessly and with the forgiveness that if they were too nervous one week, they could sit out…but we’d be back. Learning to swim myself didn’t cross my mind, despite the obvious safety reasons. “Limiting beliefs” or whatever.

I wish I could say I felt an otherworldly determination to learn to swim for my kids’ sake. I wish my plan all this time wasn’t the bogus notion that I would suddenly have superhuman adrenaline and inexplicable skills if I ever needed to save my babies. I wish the bottomless love I have for my kids was the “click.”

“I will never be a swimmer,” I thought to myself. “But at least they’re already better than I’ll ever be.”

I genuinely believed it was the best I could do.

But then the faintest ember of an idea appeared as I lived vicariously through my daughter and I overheard bits and pieces I had never heard before. (Like, apparently you can “hummm” when you go under the water so it doesn’t go up your nose? Really?) I started to think maybe I could try some of these tricks, too? I had spent so long being uncomfortable with swimming that it never occurred to me that maybe what I needed were some better instructions than to “just” do this or “just” do that.

After a couple months of letting my curiosity marinate, I signed up for adult swim lessons. But as my first class grew closer, my anxiety went from a needling alarm to a full-blown siren. I was jittery as I pulled my swimsuit from my drawer, and the urge to cry started to build behind my eyes as I looked for my car keys. I began to tell myself the same things I lovingly tell my kids when they’re nervous or don’t want to do something:

“Being brave means doing something even though you’re scared!”

“It’s fun to try new things!”

“You’ve done harder things than this. Remember when…?”

But I didn’t want to hear it, even from myself.

And that’s what landed. I realized the fear I was experiencing was child-like.

I let myself be distracted by the insight, and my gentle-parenting heart was grateful to recall what it’s like when you are full of authentic fear and can’t be talked out of it. We think we remember what it’s like to be a kid, but do we really?

I decided to give myself the grace I would give my children.

“You don’t have to do anything special for me to love you. I will always love you because you’re you.”

And then I got in the car and drove.

When I walked into the Y’s pool area, I saw my instructor would be Diane—the patient-but-no-nonsense swim authority every parent wants assigned to their swimmer. She asked me what my goal was, and I replied, “I’d like to be able to go underwater for more than a second. I can’t even do that.” She didn’t flinch—and I knew I was in good hands. I felt safe.

I survived that first day, and the second lesson was particularly productive as Diane explained what would make water go up my nose or not. During my third lesson, I learned to float and slowly go backwards; it was the beginning of something else beginner-y, but I smiled as the ceiling drifted by because it seemed like a dream. I had spent my entire life not believing I could ever do something like this…and there I was, doing it.

Within a few months of 30-minute weekly lessons, I was stunned by my overall progress. By no means am I a natural; instead, Diane always knows the best progression for me so that I can understand what to do and when. Living vicariously through my child changed the game—and Diane is giving me the new set of rules. I can properly swim the entire length of the lap pool, working on my form while also slowly committing it to muscle memory. And it took about 20 lessons, but I now take just one deep breath before going underwater, instead of a couple.

Now that I’m comfortable—and dare I say somewhat competent?—in the water, it’s as if the blackout drapes in my brain have been pulled back. The view is peaceful and promising and makes me want to keep learning. When Diane gives me an exercise to mother-ize something—such as doing the breaststroke but with my head above water to be able to keep sight of my child if needed—I can envision and execute it, excited to be a more-prepared mom.

With each passing week, I learn more tips, I keep calmer, and I even have a little fun. At a recent hotel stay with my family, I proudly showed my daughter Griff my new moves. Then she suggested we both go underwater with our goggles on and wave to each other. I had never done such a thing. The sight of my sweet daughter in her pink swimsuit waving to me in the blue depths is a new core memory. Also blissfully etched in my brain: the delighted shrieks from Indy, my preschool-aged son, who had clung to my husband’s neck while I swam underwater toward them with my hands shaped like a shark fin.

Another top moment was when I told my parents over the phone I had started taking adult swim lessons. They were completely shocked—maybe even a little bit awed. But most of all, they were really happy.

Because when your kid learns to swim, it’s a huge relief.

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