Just Jump In

The story my mom tells is that when I went to watch my older brother at swim practice at Pacific Swim in Poway, I just jumped straight into the pool, fully clothed, with absolute confidence that this is where I belonged. Belonging for an adopted kid is often kind of a lifelong puzzle, but in the water? I knew then, like I still know now, THAT’s where I belonged.

The thing is, I didn’t actually know how to swim yet, so the coach dove in fully clothed to grab me… and then immediately put me on the team. I was four, a little young, but she made an exception and we were both glad she did!

I took to swimming naturally, especially butterfly, and started winning meets against five- and six-year-olds because that was the youngest division available. At the time, it just felt fun. Looking back now, it feels like something deeper, like my body already knew the water.

I’ve now seen something eerily similar with my own son. When we visited Hearst Castle and toured the pool, he had only been walking a few months but ran straight toward the water ready to jump in. We stopped him, and the tantrum nearly got us kicked out, luckily a kind docent ended up giving us a private tour so he could be loud and not disturb the group (thanks Jack!). Only later did I learn Johnny Weissmuller had been a frequent swimmer in that exact pool. Sometimes the parallels feel almost surreal.

Raised by the Ocean

At nine years old, I joined San Diego Junior Lifeguards and basically lived at the beach every summer. Sergeant Eric Care ran the program and always looked out for me. I did both sessions every year, a full summer kid, which meant extra training, extra adventures, and eventually a path into ocean lifeguarding for real.

At eighteen, I tried out and became an ocean lifeguard.

I guarded Ocean Beach, and Tower 2, one of the busiest and most challenging towers on the coast, with heavy rip currents, cliffs, jetties, and constant action. At the time, very few women were assigned there, and it remains one of the greatest honors of my life. I performed countless rescues. Sometimes crowds would cheer “Baywatch!” from the sand, which was funny, fun, and sometimes awkward.

The Moment It Hit Me

When I learned who my great-grandfather was, I cried; suddenly, every second-place finish flashed through my mind. Every moment of “I’m just not good enough” flooded me.

I now know that many adoptees carry that feeling without realizing it. In that moment, I understood how much I had held myself back. Somewhere deep down, I didn’t believe I was worthy of winning.

Learning that I came from a five-time Olympic champion was dizzying. It forced me to confront the possibility that the only thing ever standing in my way had been my own belief about who I was and who I thought I was allowed to be. Part of me felt robbed of knowing sooner, and another part felt almost foolish for not seeing it, because deep down I had always sensed something big inside me. At the same time, I wonder what kind of pressure that knowledge might have carried, what it would feel like growing up in the shadow of such enormous shoes to fill. In the end, though, I know there’s no peace in living in “what ifs.” I’m still learning how to hold all of that at once, and how to move forward with it. Maybe identity isn’t something you inherit. Maybe it’s something you have to feel, claim, listen to and believe from within.