The Art of Drowning With Style

No one likes being the rookie.

The FNG. The amateur. The person standing there almost childlike, struggling to grasp concepts everyone else seems to understand instinctively.

Hi. I'm Cody Hitson.

I'm that guy.

Sure, I have an endurance-running background. I've checked off a couple of long-distance races. And yeah, I grew up riding bikes and swimming in lakes and rivers.

None of that prepared me for the reality of long-distance swimming and cycling.

I started swim training almost a month ago and have logged hours in a local pool since then.

Nothing about it has been easy.

I've struggled. Floundered. Splashed my way down the lane while people of every age, shape and size seemed to glide effortlessly past me.

And it drove me absolutely insane.

So I did what Type A personalities do when we're bad at something: I tried to study my way into being good at it.

I watched videos about stroke mechanics. The catch. Body position. Rotation. Breathing. Hand entry. Kicking.

Then I tried to consciously execute every tiny movement perfectly.

Stroke. Rotate. Elbow. Catch. Pull. Exhale. Turn. Breathe.

My brain was running a checklist while my body was trying not to drown.

I'd reach the wall after 25 yards completely breathless, wondering how something that looked so effortless for everyone else could feel so impossibly difficult for me.

Eventually, things started improving.

Twenty-five yards became manageable.

Then 50.

I even fought my way through 100.

But I still felt like I was fighting the water.

And somewhere in the back of my mind was the number that mattered:

1.2 miles.

That's the swim at the beginning of a 70.3.

How the hell was I supposed to swim more than a mile when 50 yards could still feel like work?

Today, something changed.

I was near the end of a 75-yard interval when the panic started.

My breathing was getting ragged. My mind was racing. I felt like I was drowning. Every instinct was telling me to stop, grab the wall and get out.

But I was too stubborn to quit.

Then, somewhere inside all that noise, I finally told myself:

Calm down.

You're not going to drown.

Stop fighting for perfection. Relax. Breathe. Just swim.

So I did.

Water went up my nose.

Okay.

Water got in my mouth.

Okay.

My stroke wasn't perfect.

Okay.

I wasn't fast.

Okay.

For once, none of that mattered.

I stopped fighting the water and started moving through it.

And something remarkable happened.

Swimming didn't suddenly become easy.

It became manageable.

I could breathe. I could relax. I could accept an imperfect stroke and keep moving forward.

By the end of the session, I swam 200 yards continuously—twice the farthest distance I'd ever covered without stopping.

And when I touched the wall at 200, the strangest thing happened.

I felt like I could keep going.

Maybe swimming really is just the art of drowning with style.

But lying there at the wall, I realized today's lesson had very little to do with swimming.

Nobody starts as an expert.

That's a particularly difficult pill for Type A personalities like me to swallow. We expect competence from ourselves. We demand excellence. And being visibly bad at something—especially in front of other people—can feel almost intolerable.

So we gravitate toward what we already know.

What's comfortable.

What's safe.

And I don't think we only do that in pools.

Sometimes it's easier to tell ourselves:

I don't really have a problem with alcohol.

I'm handling the PTSD.

The anxiety isn't that bad.

I don't need to talk to anybody.

I'll figure it out.

This is just how life is.

Fill in your own blank.

I've learned something through experience that I wish weren't true:

No one ever changed their life by changing nothing.

If you're tired of being tired all the time—if you're tired of sleepless nights, fighting thoughts and memories, carrying guilt or regret, or pretending everything is fine when you know damn well it isn't—ask yourself a difficult question:

Is the life you're living now really easier than the discomfort of changing it?

And is it the life you want for the people who love you?

Maybe your first 25 yards is talking to a friend.

Maybe it's making the appointment with a counselor.

Maybe it's walking into a support group.

Maybe it's finding a new community.

Maybe it's finally putting distance between yourself and the habits, environments or people that keep pulling you back toward a version of yourself you're trying to leave behind.

Whatever it is, you're probably not going to be good at it immediately.

Good.

Be the rookie.

Check your ego.

Be uncomfortable.

Flounder a little.

There may even be moments when you feel like you're drowning.

When that happens:

Relax.

Breathe.

Keep moving forward.

Stack the small wins.

Twenty-five yards.

Fifty.

One hundred.

Two hundred.

And one day you may look back and realize that the distance you once thought impossible has become something you simply know how to swim.

You don't have to be perfect to move forward.

You just have to keep moving.