I remember the exact afternoon when I knew I would never swim again. I was 13 years old, sobbing in the car the whole way home as my school uniform stuck to my damp skin. The previous hour in the hydrotherapy pool haunted me and I remembered how my weak neck gave way and my head slipped under the water, flooding my ears and nose. My body was precariously suspended by multi-coloured floats. I panicked and cried out that I didn’t feel safe.
Physiotherapists circled around me like synchronised swimmers, reassuring me that I was OK. But my body didn’t feel like it was mine any more. I had lost control to the water. On the journey home I was forced to acknowledge the inevitable – my swimming days were over.
