Disclaimer: Within this work, there will be writing on various topics that may trigger some readers such as general transphobia, discussion of self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and more. Names of people, teams, and other things may be censored by a pseudonym, label, or general term (i.e. 'Person A', 'Team 2', 'Former friend' ). This is speaking exclusively on my experience as a trans athlete, and everyone's story is vastly different; do not use my story to generalize the experiences of trans athletes. Do not seek out anyone within this story to expose personal information.
This piece is dedicated to every coach I’ve had, my college teammates, and my parents. This will be a comprehensive story of my love for swimming, and the heartbreak of letting go.
I was five when I put my head underwater for the first time. As a family, we’d gone on our semi-annual trip (it was more like once every 2 to 3 years) and despite refusing to go under the day before, I was primed by a dream about putting my head underwater and swimming a few feet forward toward my parents. I finally did it, and the rush was thrilling to my small brain. The smell of chlorine pools stinging my nose brings me back to it every time. Every single race, every practice, and every day was dedicated to how thrilling that first swim was. I never thought that I’d let go of my new favorite sport. I was going to be a swimmer. I’d get out of the car every so often telling my mom we’d afford college because I’d be some big shot brainiac and star swimmer (and god were you ambitious without a brain, little me), she probably thought I was full of hope without a sense of reality. My mind was set though. I wanted to be a collegiate swimmer. Which meant I’d need to swim with a club team.
There was a certain thrill in sinking to the bottom of the pool during our practices. It’d make the world go silent (and so my coaches would get louder yelling at me for not paying attention) and my imagination would race with whatever fantasy world was on my mind. It became my safe space where the world didn’t matter. I’d have a million things to tell my dad after every practice, and every so often we’d go to some fast food as a treat for doing a good job training. I took a short break from swimming, but my body craved to get back in again. Our basement even became comforting to me, as it reeked of chlorine on laundry days.
Soon enough I would start training again with another team, but things were different. I was stubborn, and often a hothead, but I had a bit more speed to my stroke. I got faster, and it was thrilling. I was winning some races, and I even won a few events in the 14&U states. This steam came to a stop at the regional event for the southeast, where I came up short. It was humiliating but I didn’t want to give up. I kept training. I kept working. And soon enough two years had passed, and I tried again. I won the 200 fly that year, and it was the happiest race of my life. I don’t know how that boy would have reacted if you told him that 6 years later he’d be quitting swimming before graduating. Maybe he’d scream at you, or sob his eyes out. He’d call you a liar, an asshole, and whatever insults a young teenager could muster. You’re never really prepared for how life is going to hit you.
Little me must’ve been so proud of the new reality I was in, I had finally become a collegiate swimmer. I even ended up at a queer college too, I was a queer athlete. Although I wish it was as simple as that. This was when I finally figured out I was trans after all, and being a trans athlete is tough, with or without hormones. So I developed this long-term goal. A light at the end of the tunnel. I was going to swim through all four years, and after my final race, a friend would hand me my first dose (of Estrogen) for me to take on deck, in front of everyone. It’d be a victory for my sacrifice. And so I tried to fight it. Physically I was already struggling with two chronic injuries, but this new mental struggle began to grow in my mind. I hated seeing my body whenever I’d swim. So to combat this, I socially transitioned with each passing day. I got shapewear, learned makeup, and beyond my experiences competing with the men's team, I was on the women's team for everything else. This was a positive step, I was handling everything. At least I thought I was.
I wasn’t though. My coach even called it hitting my head against the wall. We had meetings every so often due to this. I’d do well, but I’d slip and struggle every few weeks. I didn’t want to give up though, I couldn’t let go of this childhood dream, yet it clashed with my adult reality. Surely they could both sit together, right? I felt stuck, dragging my feet in hopes of seeing the end of the tunnel. Sadly I wasn’t even sure if I ever would. The dysphoric thoughts got worse with every passing day, It was choking me out. I kept trying to give myself sappy motivational speeches, wearing makeup at practice, and doing anything I could to feel safe. One thing we never talk about when transitioning is how lonely it can feel. You could be surrounded by dozens of friends, but you’d still feel alone. No one would know how you felt in your body. No one knew how hard transitioning weighed on you. Despite having loving friends, I felt alone. I pushed all these feelings down and convinced myself that I was finally getting better, and for 6 weeks it truly felt that way. You can only live a lie for so long though.
Sorry coach, you’re not really gonna like this part.
We’d been talking about a recruiting situation, and due to some unfortunately poor wording, he said something that impacted me deeply. While it wasn’t his intent, it reminded me that often I wasn’t seen as a woman as long as I kept swimming. He saw me as a woman, as did my teammates, and my friends, but some people didn’t. Deep down, part of me didn’t. I had fully separated being Nora and being a swimmer. The dreams of a 5-year-old boy clashed with the reality of a 20-year-old girl. An internal fight between two lives that couldn’t find a compromise. A dream that I refused to let go of. I never had been able to do that on my own. Relationships, friends, dreams, everything had to be torn from my hands because I couldn’t handle losing them. Loss is tough, as is change, even if the change is for the best. You don’t get to hold on forever though. I was at the tipping point. Thoughts filled my mind and shut the world out. I threw up from anxiety, swimsuits became nightmares, and my lover who was in the pool became my abuser. I hated my body, I hated myself, I wanted to die. Death isn’t an option though. I couldn’t give up yet, I’d simply have to find a solution like I always had. This time though, it’d be a solution I didn’t like.
This may not make sense, but suddenly everything felt like the heartbreaking ending of La La Land. (Spoiler warning for a 7-year-old film) I saw two timelines sitting before me. One where I kept training, and reached that goal of finishing my career and starting estrogen in 2025. The other smiled back gently. It was heartbreaking, but it was real. It was the truth that had been sitting there all this time, patiently waiting for me to wake up.
It was time to say goodbye to what shaped my whole world. I was ready to let go.
In a rush, I found myself walking to our athletic center. The sun had set and the wind hit my tears as I passed by my teammates. They had no clue what I was going to do. I saw my coach on deck, greeting me with a smile. And so we talked. My voice shook with every sentence until it finally boiled over.
“I’m going to quit swimming.”
He looked calm but happy. He wasn’t happy I was quitting, but he was happy I was letting myself grow. It’s a tough choice to let go of what you love. Sometimes that’s the way we show love. We put the passion to rest, letting the love live on peacefully. I never knew that my last practice would be just that, and that my last race would be so underwhelming.
So, I leave this chapter with a thank you letter. To my mom and dad, thank you for always pushing me to keep going with swimming, and for waking up at 4:15 to take me to my morning practices when I was a kid. Thank you to my aunt for driving me to meets, and supporting my dreams. Thank you to my coaches from my club team, I wouldn’t have ever made it to college without your training. Thank you to my college coaches for letting me try to compromise with the 5-year-old spirit inside me. Thank you to my therapist, who’s watched me cry in every session for months now. Thank you to my teammates, who sent me some of the sweetest messages when I broke the news, and for showing me that being a woman is truly so much more than what junk I have.
Finally, thank you to swimming. It’s truly the best sport out there, with some of the hardest-working people. I’ll always be a swimmer deep within my heart. For now, though, it’s time to let go.
A final note: This is in no way encouraging others in this situation to quit, or that they’re being unfair to themselves for not quitting. We all transition in different ways and can handle it uniquely. I was not weak for quitting, and no one was weak for wanting to. It is not selfish to leave. Do what is best for your heart and body, and it’ll love you for it.