Learning to Swim

At first,

I thought I was drowning.

Arms wild,

lungs burning,

heart panicking

at the weight of it all.

I fought the water—

kicked against it,

pushed,

thrashed

like survival meant

winning.

But water doesn’t fight back.

It just holds you

or lets you sink.

No one told me

how much of this

was learning to stop

fighting what I’m in.

So I slowed.

Not all at once—

just enough

to notice

that the surface

was closer

than I thought.

That if I leaned back

instead of forward,

if I trusted

even a little—

I wouldn’t disappear.

I wouldn’t fall

through the bottom

of something

that doesn’t have one.

I’d float.

Awkward at first.

Unsteady.

Unsure

if I could trust it to last.

But it held me.

And maybe

that’s what this is—

not learning

how to escape the water,

but learning

how to stay in it

without losing myself.

Learning

that survival

doesn’t always look like struggle.

Sometimes

it looks like surrender—

like letting something

carry you

until you remember

how to move

without fear.