It’s officially summer swim season—also known as “that time of year when I live out of a canvas bag that smells like sunscreen and regret.”

Our first meet is this Saturday, and let me just say: nothing bonds a family quite like waking up at 5:45 a.m. to cheer on your child for 42 seconds of competitive butterfly while their sibling re-enacts Lord of the Flies on the bleachers using pool noodles and half-eaten granola bars.

But let’s be real: I’ve been doing this for a while. My daughter started swimming at six. She’s eleven now, and a year-round swimmer. We are no longer new. We are committed. Which means I’ve spent a significant portion of my adult life in damp indoor gyms, sitting on cold metal bleachers, setting up what can only be described as a temporary homeless encampment, complete with blankets, snacks, extra socks, and the faint hope that we remembered her backup suit.

Swim team is chaos. Swim team is magic.

It’s watching your child stand nervously behind the blocks—goggles fogged, arms crossed, skin smelling of chlorine and Coppertone—and then suddenly fly into the water like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s digging through six bags in a panic because you know you packed the Sharpie—but now you need to mark your child like a livestock auctioneer, and of course, it’s vanished into the void.

It’s where you learn what “positive check-in” means and how to remain calm when your swimmer says, “Wait… what event am I in again?” just as the heat is walking to the blocks.

It’s where we measure time in hundredths of a second and emotions in the length of a lane.

And somehow, somehow, it’s still the best part of our summer.

Because underneath the damp towels and forgotten swim caps and half-eaten concessions meals, swim team teaches things no other sport quite can:
🏊‍♀️ Discipline without a scoreboard.
💬 Camaraderie without cliques.
💪 Strength that’s built quietly, one lap at a time.
❤️ And memories that feel like joy in motion.

Swim is special. And honestly, kind of sacred. Even if I now own 17 water bottles and not one matching lid.

Swim is where my daughter has built her grit.
It’s where she’s learned to set goals, win and lose with grace, cheer for teammates, and show up for herself.
It’s where hard things become normal, and normal things become magical.

It’s not a sport of flash and trophies. It’s a sport of consistency, character, and community.

So yes, we’ll be there at 5:45 a.m. on Saturday with half-wet hair, a camp chair, three Sharpies (none of which will work), and a cooler packed with soggy sandwiches. And I’ll be tired. And I’ll also be the proudest I’ve ever been.

To all the swim moms out there—whether you’re on your first season or your sixth—you are seen. You are heroic. You are probably still drying towels from last week.

We’ve got this. One heat at a time.

Running on coffee, chlorine, and lane assignments,
—Patricia