Chapter 1: The Peak Before the Plummet

The water is the only thing that exists.

It’s a silken, rushing blue, parting for my fingertips before my body even knows it’s there. The roar of the crowd is a distant storm, muffled and warped into a single, throbbing hum. All I can hear is the thrum of my own blood in my ears and the clean shoosh of my body cutting through the lane.

Touch, pivot, push. Breathe.

My world has narrowed to the black line on the pool floor and the churning, pale form of Allan Silva two lanes over. We’re neck and neck. We have been for the last fifty meters. The final leg of the Junior District Championship relay, and it’s all on me. Diane Martin, anchor.

Kick harder. Reach longer. Don’t you dare breathe.

My lungs are screaming, a burning ache that’s starting to claw at my ribs. My muscles feel like over-tightened guitar strings, vibrating with a pain that’s become a familiar friend. This is what it costs. This is the price of the medal.

I’m five years old again, clinging to the gutter, my tiny body shaking with sobs. The water was a monster, a deep, swallowing thing that had stolen my breath once and left me terrified. My dad, his voice calm and steady from the pool deck. “Just put your face in, Di. I’ve got you.” It took a whole summer before I’d let go.

I’m eight, finally beating Tommy Higgins in a 25-meter freestyle. The shock on his face was a sweeter prize than the blue ribbon.

I’m ten, joining the Wilson Junior High competitive team, my first real swimsuit—a real, tight, racing suit—feeling like a superhero’s costume.

All of it—every 5 AM alarm in the dead of a Washington winter, every blistering chlorinated eye, every skipped sleepover—has led to this moment. This wall.