Kara Berg is a junior journalism news and telecommunications major and writes "Berg's Eye View" for the Daily News. Her views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper. Write to Kara at knberg2@bsu.edu.
I didn’t plan to quit swimming.
But my shoulder hurt again—really hurt, even after a surgery and six bouts of physical therapy. The sharp stabbing pain under my backpack straps and the dull ache down my right arm and up my neck never seemed to go away.
My doctor demanded three more months away from the pool — so my choice was either that or quit for good.
I had been considering quitting at the end of the season, and suddenly I had to make my choice seven months early. Did I give up the sport I had dedicated all of my time to since second grade, or keep pushing through the injuries that had plagued me for the past five years?
I chose to quit.
I immediately found the closest secluded corner to call my parents. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying; I didn’t (and still don’t) like being seen when I am vulnerable.
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Trying to get my mind off of it, I went to the newsroom, but my red, puffy eyes were hard to ignore. Someone asked me what was wrong and gave me a hug, and that opened the floodgates again. I cried in front of people I barely knew, in a place where I wanted to be seen as strong and capable.
A month later—a month of binge-eating and binge-Netflixing—I figured going back to the pool to watch a meet would be good for me to help me recover.
So on the day of their first meet, I dragged a friend with me so I wouldn’t have to do it alone.
I knew before I even stepped into the building that it would be hard to smell the chlorine and not jump in the pool.
I just had no idea how hard.
When I climbed the steps into the bleachers, my mind was screaming at me that this was wrong. I shouldn’t be in the stands. I should be in the pool, racing.
I could feel my body reacting to the sounds of the meet — the cheering, the official’s whistle and the starter — and I tensed up, resisting the urge to shake my arms and legs around like I was warming up.
After the first race I watched, I immediately knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there and watch my former teammates race and cheer and be happy when I was up in the stands, probably unable to ever race again. I made it through half the meet, then left.
That was the last swim meet I ever went to.
I’d like to say it’s gotten easier, but it hasn’t. Even a year and a half later, I still can’t watch a swim meet without feeling an ache in my heart.
I was left with a huge void in my life without swimming. I used to spend 20 plus hours per week at practice, and I had nothing to fill that space.
So I threw myself into my major, journalism. Ever since I was 7, I had been told “practice, practice, practice and you’ll get better.” I was unable to do that in the pool anymore, so I transferred that idea to journalism.
I had never been one to do anything half-assed, so I took all of that time that had formerly been spent in the pool and wrote stories instead.
Although I love reporting, it wasn’t the same.
The stress relief was gone, instead replaced with workplace stressors. I missed going to practice and using that as an outlet for my competitiveness. Instead, I was left competing with other students who didn’t seem to want it as bad as I did.
For the past 12 years, swimming was everything about me. It was what I thought about for 90 percent of my life. It was where my friends were; it was what I did every day after school.
Now, I don’t have that anymore. Nothing can replace it, and I don’t know if I’m OK with that or not.
It’s like recovering from your first bad breakup. It sucks, and you move on, but there will always be a little part of you that still holds onto that love.
As the swim season draws to a close — once again without me on the team — I’m starting to feel that familiar ache again.
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