Personal Statement

It seemed odd that silence would become my best friend on a 40 degree night at my local community college pool. The rest of my competitive team were gigantic, muscular high-schoolers compared to my frail seventh grade self. Their raw, powerful swimming was not meant for the likes of a skinny Asian boy to handle. Thus I remained as the slowest swimmer in the last lane with the silly clear goggles, the one who didn’t utter a word, yet the one who kicked the hardest and swam until he had to lie down on the cold pavement at the end of every practice.

Then it came time for the main test of the night. Months of training led up to this one night, a chance to demonstrate your perseverance and improvements over the season. The coach set a goal time for each person to meet, and with little surprise, most of my team went ahead with their swims and met their requirements. Except me.

Ten chances to meet my time, and I had already failed twice. Everyone else had left early, dressed into warm clothing, with a few standing to watch me in sympathy. Coach called me up to the blocks again, and I dive out once more, flailing my arms, hastily kicking, hoping just to cut a second off before I come back and I droop in disappointment after seeing the clock.

The small crowd saw what had happened, but no one bothered to speak to me, leaving me alone in silence. I leaned on the gutter, drained of my energy, and I did all my thinking to myself. I need to kick further. I need a better dive. I need to stop feeling so sorry for myself.

And soon I’m back up there for the fourth round, a little determined this time around, yet once I come crashing back to the wall I once again felt my shoulders sag as I looked at the clock.

Teammates began to walk over, giving looks of pity and small encouraging talk, but I paid no attention. I decided that moment that months of training will not result in me taking any false sympathy or hearing others treat me as a toddler. After all, no one could truly understand swimming as a “nobody” with so little experience and physical strength.

There was a surge of hope through me as I realized what I had to do. The only way to prove my worth was to push through all ten opportunities given to me, at least, until I could finally make my time if I do at all. If I could persevere to the end, I would make a statement with my actions much greater than I ever could with my words to the team.

I followed up on my own promise by swimming every one of those ten test sets, a feat that shocked the spectators who stayed to watch. And despite having not made the goal time in the end - despite my limbs burning in pain on every one of those swims - I walked out of practice with a smile and said not a word. From then on, my teammates seemed to treat me with a higher regard, though I continued this silent, hard effort swimming style in practices.

Years passed, and I’m at my high school finals for swimming, having improved to a level higher than all of my old teammates. I see my old coach and my team, and though I smile and wave to them, I keep my silence. I keep it out of recognition to that one fateful night, because after looking back, I realized that I wasn’t just proving my competence to the team. I had proven to everyone, even myself, that a silent little boy with a loud, aspiring desire for success could achieve any level of greatness with enough effort and enough heart.