How I Overcame My Fear of Water and Learned to Swim at 26

This article originally appeared on VICE Netherlands.

“My name is Sona – today I'm here for my first swimming lesson.” That’s how I introduce myself to a group of six adult women between the ages of 20 to 80 as I nervously walk out of the changing rooms. It’s the first time I’ve worn a swimsuit in years, and my senses tune in to the smell of chlorine and the sound of splashing water all around me. My legs are shaking, and the tiles are slippery. I feel naked and awkward, so I keep my towel wrapped around me.

Before I got here, I’d had a weird stomach ache followed by nausea, and my heart had started to race. I came up with all sorts of excuses to just stay home. But eventually I got myself to this moment: a 26-year-old woman who’s never learned how to swim, at her first swimming lesson.

Usually, telling people I don’t know how to swim elicits a very specific reaction: raised eyebrows, laughter and, of course, question after question. It’s understandable – for most kids in Europe, learning how to swim is a normal a part of growing up, like learning how to walk.

But I'm originally from Iraq, a country where taking swimming lessons isn’t really a thing. I moved to the Netherlands as a kid and went to a primary school where swimming lessons were mandatory. But when it came to the year for me to learn, they stopped the programme. My classmates were booked into swimming classes elsewhere by their parents, but in my family it just wasn’t seen as a priority for cultural reasons.

At the time, I didn’t mind. I preferred drawing and playing with Barbies. But slowly, the differences between me and most other kids my age became clearer. I’d receive invites to birthday parties and school trips where I was told to bring a swimsuit. I always joined, but couldn’t really enjoy myself. I’d sit by the edge of the pool or remain in the shallow end.

It didn’t help that when I was nine-years-old, I had a scary experience with water that only amped up my anxiety. I’d gone on a family trip to the Syrian seaside, and met up with other relatives there. To this day, it’s one of the most beautiful holidays I’ve ever had, apart from one unpleasant memory that stayed with me for years to come.

We were spending an afternoon on the beach of Latakia, a port city on the Mediterranean Sea. The adults were busy talking – some family members hadn't seen each other in years, so there was plenty to catch up on. In the meantime, my sisters, my cousins and I decided to go into the water.

Initially, I stayed near the shore, as I usually did. I knew I couldn't swim, so I didn't take any risks. I also always wore an inflatable ring to help me stay afloat, so I felt safe.

But while playing around with the other kids, I lost the inflatable. The waves got taller and taller, the water deeper. Before I realised it, I was in up to my chin. Suddenly, I couldn’t feel the sand beneath my feet. I started panicking, splashing around and screaming for help. My uncle saw it happen from a distance and jumped into the water to rescue me.

Everything turned out okay, but my fear of water only got worse after that. I think my perspective of the seaside also changed. I know people have fun and feel free on the beach, but I always saw it as a dangerous place – somewhere you can become acutely aware of the power of nature.

For years, I thought I was the only person dealing with this problem, and that heightened my anxiety around swimming even more. To top it all off, I’m also pretty uncomfortable with showing skin and I’ve always preferred to be more covered than your average swimsuit.

But ever since I started to open up about this fear, I discovered more and more people who also never learned to swim. While researching adult swimming lessons, I also found women-only classes, and this, as well as other factors, put me more at ease. Eventually, I decided it was time to put an end to my fear once and for all, and that’s how I found myself standing by the pool on these slippery tiles.

“You can do it, but you are thinking too much,” says my swimming teacher, inviting me to get into the water. She’s young and smiley. Since the people in the class are at different levels, they pair us off into groups, each led by an instructor so that everyone gets the attention they need. I couple up with a woman who’s already completed three lessons. She tells me she wants to be able to swim with her grandchild.

I get in the pool, but when the teacher asks me to float on my back, the panic kicks in. “I'm really just a beginner,” I tell her, frightened. I have no idea how to stay afloat, how to avoid accidentally sinking, or where to put my legs and arms.

“No problem. Do you want me to hold you?” she asks. I try to gently let myself fall back. I push my stomach up, while the rest of my body sinks. I can’t help but notice how tense I am. “It’s okay for the water to get into your ears and on your face, that’s the intention,” says the teacher. She then suggests I go fully in, head and all, to lessen my fear. She places her arm behind my head for support.

After a few attempts, I manage to stay afloat. I close my eyes. Suddenly, I feel so light, and it dawns on me what people mean when they say there’s a certain freedom to being in water. I start to feel increasingly safe and at ease, and the other woman and I take turns practising, motivating each other with the occasional “well done”.

Now the swimming lesson really gets going. First, we focus on the arms, and then on the legs. After a few exercises, the teacher hands me a float to hold under my chest so I can practice frog kicks and breaststrokes.

I’m swimming, and everything around me sinks away. I can’t believe how quickly and completely the shame lifts off. I love the feeling of floating and being in control, instead of letting the water determine what happens to me. I glance at the clock and realise it’s nearly time to get out. ‘That’s a shame,’ I think, much to my own surprise.

The next time I get into the pool, I’m assisted by a very friendly 18-year-old teacher named Maroua. We hit it off right away. She can tell I’m still nervous and reassures me I’m safe. I tell her I’m particularly scared of not touching the bottom with my feet. “Would you like to try the deep water?” she asks. I look at her with big eyes, and she promises me to hold me. I can’t help but trust her completely.

With Maroua’s help, I start swimming in the deep end of the pool, from one side to the other. It’s incredibly thrilling, and for a brief moment, I forget how deep the water is – I feel like I’m really swimming.

Maroua and I continue practising frog kicks, breaststrokes with only arms or only legs, floating, and kicking. I feel like I’m learning a lot. When an exercise goes well, she gives me a high five and has a look of real pride on her face.

At 7.30PM, the lesson is over. I say my goodbyes and carefully walk back to the changing rooms with a towel around me. I keep getting flashbacks of my childhood, when I’d always feel so insecure and scared in the lockers. But today, I feel so happy.

Of course, there are still things I’m scared of; like jumping in from a diving board, for instance. But the simple fact that I’m taking the necessary steps to overcome my fears makes me very proud. I walk out of the pool with wet hair and a big smile. ‘See you next week,’ I think to myself.