I’m old. I’m fat. I’m a food addict. I’m sick.
Some days I can barely move. Most days, I don’t get far out of my own will. But not long ago, my wife sat me down and gave it to me straight:
“Either check yourself into rehab, or start physical therapy. Choose.”
So I chose movement. I chose the pool.
And even now, just saying “I chose the pool” feels like an act of surrender.
It’s been a few weeks. I’ve been easing in—literally—trying to show up, get in the water, and move. The thing is, something happens when I get in the pool. The weight drops. The pain eases. For the first time in years, I can stand upright. I can float. I can breathe. It’s like the gravity lets go for a little while—and so does the shame.
Yesterday, the pool was mostly empty. Just two people swimming laps. I had my boys with me. I tried messing with my Bluetooth headphones (they didn’t work worth a damn), but that’s not the story.
The story is her.
Big woman. Shaved head. Tattoos up and down her arm. Mismatched swimsuit that didn’t give a damn about style. And she was barely moving. Just pacing slowly from wall to wall in the water. No speed. No fanfare.
But she wouldn’t stop.
I noticed her right away—but honestly, not in the best way. My first thought wasn’t compassion. It wasn’t awe. It was judgment. Some flicker of my addict brain wanting to size her up. Compare. Critique. Separate.
And then I moved on. Swam a few laps. Hung with my boys. Did my own thing.
But she kept going. And then I noticed something else.
She was already in the pool before I got there. And she was still moving when I left.
Not fast. Not dramatic. But she never stopped.
And somewhere in the middle of all that water, it hit me like a cannonball:
She’s doing the thing I can barely bring myself to do.
She’s not trying to be impressive.
She’s just refusing to quit.
That woman—without saying a word—preached a sermon that cracked me wide open. A sermon on perseverance. On quiet power. On what it means to keep moving when your body aches and your will wants out. She didn’t know I was watching. Didn’t know she inspired me.
But she did.
Reflection: What She Taught Me
Recovery isn’t always dramatic. It’s not always a before-and-after photo. Sometimes it’s a woman with a shaved head and mismatched clothes who refuses to stop moving. Sometimes it’s me, watching from across the pool, realizing that I’ve been so wrapped up in my own misery that I forgot to notice the fighters around me.
Her recovery looked different than mine.
But the heart? The heart was the same.
Get in the water.
Move whatever you can.
Don’t stop.
That’s it. That’s the sermon.
Still…
Still hurting.
Still healing.
Still in the water.
Still learning how to move—like she did.
Still not stopping.
DeeBo
Wow, I'm also inspired by this. Thanks for sharing and keep up the good work.