On the drive to the pool, I remind my daughter of her love for the water; of how the ocean holds Moana up and it will hold her too; of her strength; of her brain that remembers how her muscles should move. Still, week after week, I watch the same exchange with her instructor:
"Focus, you've got this!"
She spins in place, her face above the surface, squeal-shouting.
"Believe in yourself."
She spins in place, her face above the surface, squeal-shouting.
"Pick a stroke and come get me!"
She spins in place, flails her arms the wrong way, going nowhere.
Week after week, I watch and wonder at her struggle. Why is it so hard, this simple thing?
I've spent the last four days flailing in words on an assignment that was given to me because it's something I've written about before, and I'm one of only a handful who have. And yet. I didn't know the material. I should've done more reporting. What was even there to say about this that people didn't know already? I asked for an extension. I flailed some more. Took some naps. Complained to a friend. Pored over my notes. This afternoon, something shifted. The words were in me. I didn't need more reporting or other examples. My story was right here, where I'd been spinning in place for four days. All I had to do was take a deep breath and dive in.
Why is it so hard, this simple thing?
