The Colorado girls' high school swim season has swept in like a riptide, pulling me under its relentless current and rendering me delinquent in writing. I have time during daylight hours—stolen minutes between practices, quiet mornings with coffee—but my brain churns with workouts and periodization plans, meet lineups and qualification times. In earlier decades, I could juggle two or three mental tracks at once, switching between them like a skilled conductor. These days, I possess what we used to call "a one-track mind"—though in my case, the singular track runs straight through chlorinated water rather than toward other, more titillating topics.
Working with high school students brings me unexpected joy, perhaps because I'm still a teenager myself—perpetually awkward, prone to inappropriate laughter, forever seeking validation. But the truth is simpler: they arrive at practice scrappy and energetic, playful yet hard-working, willing to push their bodies beyond what seems possible. They're also devastating in their emotions. The most difficult challenge I face lies in balancing sympathy for their individual trials and tribulations while urging them to meet commitments, face uncomfortable truths, and make the best of whatever situation life hands them. Yesterday I told one athlete that what we call "normal" life is a road riddled with potholes and sudden detours. Smooth sailing, I explained, is the rare exception—those brief, glorious stretches between inevitable storms. I couldn't give her what she wanted, though I tried to offer tools and alternative pathways toward her goals, watching her face shift from hope to resignation and finally, to sorrow.
People my age have slogged through the metaphorical mud enough times to distinguish genuine crises from everyday challenges or seasonal disappointments. My students lack the benefit of hard-won perspective and often haven't yet faced matters of life and death—a blessing, but also a missing framework that allows questions of JV versus Varsity placement, meet qualifications, and time trial results to bloom into what feel like insurmountable obstacles. To them, these moments register as apocalyptic. I remember that intensity, how the world could end over a failed chemistry test or an unreturned phone call.
I hate disappointing my girls, but life will accelerate toward them with greater velocity once they leave for college—new pressures, higher stakes, less cushioning between mistake and consequence. Learning to metabolize life's letdowns and navigate unexpected challenges now becomes preparation, a kind of inoculation against future despair. My own kids and I have discovered that leaning into gratitude—searching for reasons to be grateful even in the depths of disappointment—provides a sturdy ladder out of those occasional pits. That's more philosophical than the tactical advice my swimmers seek, but perhaps I'll keep it tucked in my sleeve for the right moment, for the athlete who's ready to hear it.
In the meantime, the relentless rhythm of the season pulls me forward. I'm off to procure groceries (we don't eat well during swim season—dinner devolves into whatever can be assembled in under ten minutes), finish addressing Christmas cards before they become Valentine's greetings, and prepare for tonight's workout. The one-track mind rolls on, carrying us all toward whatever finish line awaits—hoping that somewhere along the way, these young swimmers learn that the real victory lies not in the times they post, but in showing up despite the fear, in trying again after failure, in discovering they're stronger than they knew.
