Lately, I have been struggling to find the joy in swimming. I know it’s because of my own self-talk. 

When prepping for our workshop together yesterday I had told Judy that I was apparently not willing to go the extra mile in any aspect of my life. 

Sure I would go swimming but it would be lame-ass swimming, focusing on technique.

I would tell myself any swimming is better than no swimming and use that as an excuse for not pushing myself. 

Instead of seeing consistently showing up for swims, while by myself, in a foreign country, taking care of my dog and working as a testament to my dedication, I was hell-bent on twisting it to fit my inner narrative. That I wasn’t willing to go the extra mile.

Sure I swam, but it didn’t count. I didn’t push myself.  If Michael Phelps were here, he would admonish me for not doing what he did. Blowing off friends and parties so that he could be in the pool every freaking day for 4 years straight, or at least I think it was something along those lines. Of course Michael Phelps isn’t here and the only admonishing anyone is me.

I am ticking down the list of all the ways in which I worry I am falling short at a dizzying rate. If that rate were my heart rate it would land me in my coveted heart rate zone 4 easily.

Swimming, family, work, dog.

Judy blinks and says. It’s funny that’s what you are telling yourself. From where I sit, I see someone who is willing to stay behind in Austria for as long as it takes for her dog to heal well enough. For him to be able to handle the stairs in his house in The Netherlands. If that’s not willing to go the extra mile, then I don’t what is.

Silence.

Obviously I was aware of what my brain was doing. Holding me up to impossible standards in an attempt at galvanizing myself into action. I’ve coached people on it enough to recognize when it happens to myself.

It’s something that rarely works. Badgered humans seldom feel motivated to swim more. They’re more inclined to drown themselves in self-pity.

I was aware, but unable to break out of the self-destructive pattern, until Judy cracked things wide open with that one remark.

Huhhhhh. 

I give myself an hour at the swimming fen today. I need to make a supermarket run as well, and I don’t want Rusty to spend too much time alone.

I congratulate myself for showing up and for coming up with a plan to do some interval training. I will do 10 fast “laps” between the artificial island and the pontoon, with 10 seconds rest in between. As I set about executing my plan, I also decide to spruce things up with some clockwise laps of the fen as opposed to my regular counter-clockwise ones and the last half lap I tell myself to up the tempo to an endurance-sprint.

I swim a little over 2km, and I feel really good about myself.

When I get out, and remove my swim cap, two elderly ladies, locals, who I have noticed before beam up at me.

“Ahhh, Sieeeee sind die Schwimmerin!” – You are the swimmer!

We chat for a bit. I ask them if they come every day because I recognize them from previous swims. Almost every morning, especially when the weather is nice. They don’t swim front crawl like me though.

They seem like good friends who share this morning swim ritual the way I often share mine with Aske and Gerda back in Delft.

I wish them an amazing day, which shouldn’t be too hard given the blue skies. They wave and tell me they will see me next time. Maybe, slowly, I’m starting to belong, just by showing up consistently.

When I get home from grocery shopping, I check the read-out of my watch.

Heart rate zones 2, 3 and a smidge of 4.

Fuck yeah.

Ich bin die Schwimmerin. I am the swimmer.