Finding Comfort in the Water: Our Swimming Story
My eldest had never been good at anything. Everything was hard for her, even the simplest of things. Her sister, on the other hand, excelled. It was a hard comparison, which often worried me.
Swimming had been a constant in our lives. I had loved swimming myself as a child, often spending all day in the water with friends at our local pool. On holidays, I spent all day in the water, and no holiday was complete without a pair of flippers, a snorkel, and a mask set. I took the girls often when they were young. On those long days where we didn’t know what to do, wet Sundays, or long Christmas holidays, it was always a win. S could never sit still for long or amuse herself, and the eternal fighting and squabbling would start. But they both loved splashing around in the water. I could sit down in the pool and have a much-needed rest at last while watching them. They loved to play around me, pretending to be hairdressers and washing my hair, or carrying me around in the water where I was weightless. Many happy hours were spent with them in swimming pools. They could even get a shower and wash their hair, which saved the screaming and fighting at bedtime. With the distraction of watching everyone in the pool, it was somehow manageable. Sunday afternoon swimming became a regular thing as it also meant they were all showered and clean for school the next day. Getting them out of the pool and into the shower was a challenge enough, but getting the three of us dressed afterwards was a whole other level of stress. They would both be exhausted and grumpy by this time. Threats and treats were thrown around, and food and snacks helped a little. I’m sure those around thought that I was torturing them. Screaming, yelling, and banging came from the cubicle. Even a few loud slaps at times that would have sounded like I had hit them—when it was actually S hitting me. We often left in tears, steam coming out of my ears, and with empty threats to never return to another pool again.
We tried many different swimming lessons. G did well and picked it up. S struggled. It made us aware that one side of her body was weaker than the other. She couldn’t get her left arm to swing around the way she could the right. She couldn’t get her face into the water. She had to remove her implant in the pool, so couldn’t hear anything and could only go on what she picked up from lip reading or watching others. Many different teachers tried to teach her. She progressed slightly but never quite got there. In between, I persisted in trying to get her to learn myself. She was getting older now and, on holiday, still wearing armbands. This wasn’t socially acceptable. Steven and I could deal with our embarrassment, but her sister was mortified. For safety, we really wanted her to be able to swim. So I persevered, trying to teach her. Slowly, she improved. We got her to a point where she could swim under the water but not above. She still couldn’t swim beyond her depth.
It was when she started at a special needs high school that this all changed. They had a pool and a wonderful PE teacher who was working with her. She recommended that we contact a special needs swimming club in our area. I had no idea it existed. Along we went, unclear about what we were actually going to, but we soon realised that this wasn’t just lessons—it was a swimming club. A boy from her school was there too. He seemed delighted to see her, and it was obvious they knew each other well.
She started to go every week, and slowly they worked with her to learn how to breathe while swimming. Little by little, she got more confident until eventually, she could do it. She progressed to swimming with the club three times a week. She swam for miles, length after length. She learned different strokes and started taking part in swimming galas. At these galas, she started winning medals. She was achieving, she was good at this. Her left side got stronger, but she was also part of a team.
I cannot tell you the difference this made to our lives. She found her place in the world, but in that place, we had also found solace in the other parents. They got it. They understood. For many years, this was our routine: swimming three times a week, swimming galas at the weekends, long days sitting at hot, uncomfortable pool sides, cheering her on. She, of course, couldn’t hear us as she didn’t have her implant on—until new technology advanced enough to create a waterproof version of this. How exciting! Now she could hear the water. She was surprised at the sound her arms made as they slapped the water and at the cheering crowd as she swam. She could hear instructions and talk to her teammates.
Swimming three times a week had brought some calm to our lives. The energy she used up helped, but the controlled breathing, deep pressure, and sensory stimulation all helped too. If she missed a week’s training, we could see the difference in her behaviours. She had built friendships and felt like she belonged—she was blossoming.
The boy from school was now her boyfriend. It was all very innocent and sweet. I had never dared to imagine this for her. Life was already improving when we got the news that she had been selected to swim for Scotland West in the Special Olympics. This was something that we heard the older swimmers talk about, and it was a big deal. She would be travelling to Sheffield, staying with her team, and swimming each day for a week, competing for Scotland West.
For a year, training increased, funds were raised, and hotels were booked. Around 20 of our friends and family were travelling down to see her compete. The excitement built. I was worried about how she might cope. How we might cope. But she had the time of her life, bringing home a gold medal for her 50-metre backstroke and a silver medal for her team medley. Seeing her win that gold, with all of our nearest and dearest cheering her on, was indescribable. Pure joy. Especially when, in her own delight, her fist pumped the water as she realised she had actually pulled it off.
She continues to train regularly to this day. When she misses it, she struggles. She is more on edge and has too much energy to burn. Lockdown was torture for her. She couldn’t get in the water for a year. An inflatable hot tub in the garden was the best we could do, until a friend of a friend allowed us access to their nearby empty holiday home with an indoor swimming pool built on the back. This was awesome. It was like releasing a stranded animal out of captivity. She was back in her natural habitat: streamlined, gliding up and down the pool. Submerged underwater and moving her body in and out, breaking the surface and then back down again, tumbling under the water and pushing off the wall into another stretched-out stroke. It was as much a relief for us to see as for her to experience.
Her sister became a volunteer in the club, assisting in training and at galas, then eventually trained as a swimming teacher. It was a great job for her in her late teens and fantastic experience for her career as a school teacher. I even trained as a swimming teacher myself, a job I did briefly between fostering and running the charity.
The water has been so therapeutic for us. It has so many healing qualities: its sound, its feel, the way it moves, and how it looks. Its repetitive rhythm. As I get older, I find myself drawn to vast expanses of water more and more, craving it. I could sit and look at the water for hours—it helps bring me calm and grounds me.
Looking back, I realise how much swimming has given our family—not just a skill or a sport, but a sense of belonging, resilience, and pride. For my daughter, it wasn’t just about learning to swim; it was about overcoming challenges, building confidence, and finding her place in the world. Water has a way of healing, of washing away fears and struggles, and leaving behind strength and calm. It gave my daughter so much that I never expected and provided us all with a sanctuary. Today, when I see her glide through the water with confidence and joy, I see more than just a swimmer. I see a fighter, a champion, and a young woman who has found her flow in life.
Swimming has taught us so much more than strokes and technique—it’s shown us the beauty of persistence, the strength in community, and the joy of achieving the seemingly impossible. It’s a journey I’ll forever cherish, one that continues to shape not just her life, but all of ours.