She Touched With One Hand — And I've Never Been More Proud

This past Saturday, my seven-year-old Mia was chosen to swim in the A meet.

If you're a swim parent, you know what that means. If you're not — it's the competitive meet. Mia was selected for not one stroke, but two: breaststroke, which she loves, and butterfly.

Butterfly. At seven years old.

I swam competitively for years — through childhood, through high school — and I can tell you with full confidence: butterfly is hard. It is one of the most technically demanding strokes in competitive swimming. The timing, the kick, the arm pull, the breath — everything has to work together or it falls apart. Watching a grown swimmer struggle with it is common. Watching a little girl be asked to race it at an A meet? That takes courage.

Mia was nervous to swim butterfly. Of course she was. We told her she could do it. We told her she was ready. And then she got in that water and she showed up.  Her stroke looked beautiful. She was strong. She was holding her own against five other swimmers, pushing toward the wall, and as the race came to its end — she was tracking toward second place. My heart was in my throat. I was so proud I could burst.

And then she touched the wall. With one hand.

For those who don't know competitive swimming — a butterfly finish requires a simultaneous two-hand touch on the wall. Both hands, at the same time. It's a rule. It's the rule. And it's one we had talked about that very morning. More than once.

When she turned around to look at me, her face was open searching for my reaction, waiting to find out what place she'd gotten. And instead of seeing me explode with pride, she watched me mime the two-hand touch with my body and me throwing my one arm up, again mimicking what a ref does when you DQ.  Disqualified.

I was furious inside. Not at her — or at least, I told myself that. But if I'm being honest, I was furious at her. How could she forget something so simple? Something we had literally just talked about? She was right there. She was about to get second place. She almost had it.

She chose to ride home from the pool with Ryan and not me. And honestly? I needed that minute alone too. I sat with my anger on the drive home, turning it over and over. And the more I turned it, the more I started to feel something shift. 

Why was I so mad?

She is seven years old. She was scared to swim butterfly. She got in the pool anyway. She swam her heart out. She was heading toward second place in a field of six swimmers, in a stroke she had every reason to be afraid of — and she almost had it. She almost had it.

My mom was at the beach this weekend. She texted asking how Mia did, and I told her the whole story — the race, the DQ, the anger I felt, all of it. My mom listened and then said something that hit me like a ton of rocks:

She was right. She was completely right.

When I got home I went straight to the treadmill. I needed to move my body and work through what I was feeling — the anger, the disappointment, the guilt about the anger. I ran it out.  And then I went upstairs, sat Mia down, and told her the truth.

I told her how proud I was. That she tried something outside of her comfort zone — something hard, something scary — and she got in that pool and she swam with everything she had. I told her that yes, she made a mistake at the end, and that mistakes are how we learn. I told her that I have made plenty of mistakes in my life. Some of them in the past week alone.

We hugged hard. And long.

Here's what I'm still learning at forty-three: my perfectionism is mine. My feeling that I'm not enough at times is mine. It doesn't belong to my children. The voice in my head that says you should have known better, you almost had it, how could you forget — that voice is loud in me. It has been for a long time. And part of my work as a mother is making sure I don't hand that voice to my kids.

That's part of why I created Sunshine & Agape — to build something that sends a different message. Daily. To my kids and to myself. That we are strong. That we are brave. That we are loved. That we can do hard things — even when we make little mistakes along the way.

Mia swam butterfly at an A meet at seven years old. She faced her fear and she dove in.

That's not a disqualification. That's a win.