The smell of fresh-cut grass and chlorine hung heavy over the school's pool deck, making my stomach lurch like a failed flip on the trampoline down the block. I'd always avoided this place, partly due to the cacophony of kids shrieking, but mostly because – I couldn't bear the thought of being that kid – flailing about in the shallow end, flapping arms for help, or so the neighborhood bullies claimed. That was before the gym teacher called me out of the classroom with a cryptic note stating 'pool time,' an invitation I was sure wasn't meant for me. Yet, as I stood before the murky water, I found myself awkwardly attempting a butterfly stroke, one that more resembled a wounded bird in distress. It was not how I had envisioned my first time swimming, but somehow, amidst chaos and panic, I managed to breathe, or so it would seem.
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