Be a Swimmer, Not a Quitter

When I was a child, I loved to swim. And it didn’t take long before others noticed I was good at it. I advanced through the lesson levels rather quickly and the coach of my hometown’s swim team approached my mother to ask if I’d like to join the team. They even made an age exception by allowing me to join at just 6 years old.

And it didn’t take long before I realized I hated being on the swim team.

Not only did I feel out of place because everyone was several years older than me, but swimming pool laps as a first-grader after a long day of school is the furthest thing from fun that I can think of (even now as a 32-year-old, the mere thought of it is nauseating).

The difference is that swim lessons are about safety; the goal is to learn the skill of swimming in order to survive in a body of water. On a swim team, the goal is to pursue perfection of a skill through constant improvement

During my first swim meet competition, my parents literally had to peel my hands off the door of the van in order to get me inside. If I remember correctly, I finally agreed to participate after they bribed me with the promise a new Barbie doll after the meet.

I still have vivid memories of that meet. It was loud, it was crowded, and there were several sections of pools roped off into lanes. My parents weren’t allowed on the pool deck itself, so they watched from a room above. I remember feeling scared and overwhelmed, not knowing where to go or what to do. No one had even explained that, in order to stop the timer to record your swim time, you had to touch the side of the pool. I think the whole thing was just very frightening because no one had really explained what to expect and I was so young at the time.

I begged to quit. I sobbed. I pleaded. I told my mom I didn’t want to go because I didn’t enjoy it. I had trouble sleeping because I dreaded having to go to swim practice the following day. A few times, I even pretended to not feel well so my coaches would let me sit on the bleachers and watch instead of doing laps in the pool. Looking back, this is probably the first time I remember feeling what I’d describe as anxiety.

But no matter how much I cried and begged, I wasn’t allowed to quit.

I was told that, because I had agreed to join the team, I had made a commitment.

And because I had committed, I had to follow through.

It didn’t matter that I hated it. It also didn’t matter that I was only 6.

So at 6 years old, I had sealed my fate until the end of the swim season. And to a 6-year-old, a year feels like a lifetime.

At that age, I didn’t have the language for what I was really feeling. All I knew was that I had tried something new and ended up not liking it. And although following through on your responsibilities and commitments is a crucial life lesson, I’m not sure if a 6-year-old has the maturity to really grasp this concept. I’d even confidently assume that most adults wouldn’t force themselves to participate in a hobby multiple times a week for an entire year if they hated it — and if they did, it would probably take a toll on their mental health.

Looking back, I think what I really felt was that my voice didn’t matter.

At six, I wasn’t trying to avoid responsibility. I wasn’t a defiant child. I wasn’t lazy.

To a little girl who just wanted to play with her friends, swimming laps felt like torture.

I had tried something and disliked it. I could barely tie my own shoes and I was losing sleep over a sport that didn’t even matter.

And I was trying to communicate discomfort. Fear. Misery. Dread.

I felt like I had lost a piece of control over my own body.

A body and a little nervous system that was saying this makes me uncomfortable and it doesn’t feel enjoyable for me. And I was begging the big people in charge to take my discomfort seriously. I desperately wanted the adults around me to take the discomfort away because, at the end of the day, it was their choice — not mine.

I think what I learned was so much bigger than swimming.

It was the first time I learned that finishing something — even if it made me miserable — was more important than how I felt. I learned that how others perceived me was more important than my own wellbeing. I learned that commitment was a virtue, even if it came at the cost of my own experience and joy.

I learned that pushing through your feelings of discomfort was a sign of character.

Of course, my parents’ intentions weren’t to teach me that my feelings were irrelevant. They were trying to raise someone strong, capable, responsible, reliable, well-rounded, and loyal.

But for a sensitive 6-year-old, that lesson landed differently.

It taught me to distrust the adults around me. It taught me that I couldn’t rely on others to take me seriously when I was uncomfortable.

It taught me to be very careful and selective about the things I pursue out of fear that I won’t like something — because everything felt a little too permanent.

It taught me that quitting was a moral failure. That discomfort was something to override. That perseverance mattered more than my happiness and wellbeing. Sure, I was good at swimming — but I didn’t like it. It wasn’t who I was. It was never what I was meant to be. And that should have been a good enough reason to stop.

I also think there was a missed opportunity to teach me the difference between a true consequence (something that may cause harm or hardship to oneself or to others) and a perceived one.

As a child, I also hated getting needles. I would also beg, cry, and plead to not have to get them. Although it may have seemed traumatic at the time, that trauma didn’t follow me past childhood — because I understood that the purpose of vaccination is to prevent illness; getting a serious illness as a result of skipping childhood vaccination is a true consequence. And it is perfectly acceptable — even encouraged — to override temporary feelings of discomfort when the end result provides personal safety, health, and wellbeing.

Would it have hurt my coach’s feelings if I had quit? Maybe — though I doubt it.

Would it have caused anyone harm or hardship? No. In fact, it caused me more harm by not quitting.

By not pursuing it, did I throw away my chance of becoming an Olympic swimmer? Maybe. But I hated it anyway — so who cares?

Quitting the swim team wouldn’t have resulted in true consequence — it was a perceived one.

And I think these lessons followed me into adulthood.

It showed up in how long I would tolerate things that were draining me. How often I ignored my own limits. How I disregarded the way I felt in favour of perseverance. How easily I told myself that doing things I hated was just a part of being a committed person. How self-punishment would make me a better person. The idea of quitting being something to be embarrassed about or ashamed of.

I had been tricked into believing that misery meant character.

Becoming Type C has forced me to question those early lessons.

Only this time, I quit because I didn’t have a choice — my body just couldn’t take it anymore.

But what if quitting isn’t always weakness?

What if stopping is sometimes a form of wisdom?

What if listening to how we feel is also a form of integrity?

At six, I didn’t need a lesson in grit.

I just needed empathy and to feel heard.

I needed the bigger people in my life to tell me that it’s okay to quit sometimes — especially when you’re just a kid — because what truly matters is that you tried.

I needed to learn that my discomfort mattered. That my feelings mattered. That my likes and dislikes mattered.

That I was allowed to try things and not just fail at them — but have permission to quit if something didn’t suit me.

And to have permission to try something else, instead.

And I needed to be given space for preferences, limits, boundaries, and some autonomy — even if it looked irrelevant (like swimming) from the outside.

Now, as an adult living with chronic illness, I’m teaching my six-year-old self the truth:

A hobby is never a moral obligation.

The purpose of a hobby is enjoyment — not commitment.

But what’s most important is being committed to yourself.

Follow through on what’s right for you — even if that means walking away from what isn’t. Actually, especially if that means walking away from what isn’t. Because that’s integrity.

You can have character and still change your mind.

You can be reliable and still be honest.

You can quit something and still be a good person.

Maybe real strength isn’t in never quitting.

Maybe real strength is knowing when staying costs you too much and walking away because you’re not willing to pay the price.

And maybe real strength is quitting the thing you dislike in order to make room for the things you love.

Because how will we ever learn what we do love in this life if we’re wasting what precious time we have on things we dislike and that don’t actually matter?

Throwing yourself a life raft when you’re drowning isn’t quitting.

Quitting something that isn’t right for you isn’t a moral failure — it’s just staying in the correct lane.

This is your life and it’s your lane.

I don’t know about you, but I’m taking my six-year-old self by the little hand and getting the hell out of the pool.