“Go with the flow. Force nothing. Let it happen…trusting that whichever way it goes, it’s for the best” ― Mandy Hale

When I was six years old my younger brother pushed me into the deep end of a swimming pool. I read somewhere that it takes only thirty seconds for a child to drown. I have been counting the seconds.

It was a brilliant day. The sky was that kind of blue that is so deep, so blue, it looks unnatural. Against the blueness, the clouds floated, perfectly white.

My two brothers and I stood at the edge of the swimming pool looking down. “Daddy said don’t go in without him,” I barked. I was the eldest. I knew the rules. “Do you think you can stand here?” My younger brother asked pointing at the water in front of us. I was the tallest, so of course I could stand there, “Yes I can,” I answered. He did not believe me.

“Let’s see,” he said, and he pushed me in. I heard the splash that I made as I hit the water, then everything went quiet.

One, two, three seconds. I sank and I sank, and the water flooded over me covering the path I made towards the bottom of the pool. I moved my legs slowly feeling for the bottom. I felt nothing. Four, five, six, seven seconds. I did not hit the bottom. I just floated in the middle, suspended in a space that was close enough to the top that I could see the sky and the faces of my brothers looking down at me. Eight, nine, ten seconds.

I was too far from the top of the water to flail my arms, and struggle to pull myself out and gasp for air. I was too far from the bottom to push myself up. Eleven, twelve, thirteen seconds. I just floated in the middle. I was suspended in the space where I saw my hair floating above my head, it fanned out so beautifully above me. It was a mass of dark curls against the blue of the water that merged seamlessly into the blue of the sky. My hair was dancing in the sky.

Fourteen, fifteen seconds. I could see my brothers watching me. I could see their lips move, but their voices were muffled by the silence of the water. I heard nothing. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen seconds. I held my breath for as long as I could. Then I could hold it no more.

I read somewhere that drowning is quick and silent. It is. It is quiet. It is peaceful. I never struggled. I do not remember drinking in the water, but I read that as you struggle to breathe, you open your mouth for air and you drink in water. I only remember floating in that middle space, where everything was quiet. I could see everything above me. One of my brothers disappeared, and the one who pushed me in stood there watching me. He was crying. I put my hand out to tell him it was okay, and I saw my hand float in front of my face, gracefully, like the arm of a ballerina. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one seconds.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, the seconds ticked away. Was it thirty seconds yet? My brother came back with my father. My father stood at the edge of the pool, on the spot where I had fallen in. He looked down and then he was gone. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four seconds.

I still tease my father that instead of jumping in right where he stood, he chose to run to the shallow end of the pool and swim out to me. He has told me that he was panicked, that he was not thinking. He only saw the top of my head. He saw my beautiful fan of hair dancing in the blueness.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven seconds. My father swam towards me. I could see my hair moving faster in the water. The seamlessness that had merged the pool and the sky was distorted. The quietness was disturbed. I heard roaring, like waves crashing on a beach. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine seconds.

Did my father reach me at thirty seconds? Did he reach me at thirty-one or thirty-two seconds? I do not know.

I do not remember my father taking me out of the pool. I only remember coughing as the air filled my lungs and pushed the water out. It hurt. It hurt and I cried. It was more difficult to breathe than to drown.

It has been so many years since that day. But I remember it. I asked one of my brothers if he remembered that day. He said he did. I asked him if he remembered me panicking and flailing my arms about. He said, “No, it looked like you took a couple steps then you just floated, in the middle.” The steps I took to find the elusive bottom of the pool. Just two steps. He remembered the day the way I did.

Did you run to get Daddy?” I asked. “I did, but people around the pool saw what happened and were yelling for him, I did not go far,” he answered. I did not remember anybody else being there.

He was only five years old when it happened. He would not have had any concept of time then, but I asked, “How long do you think I was under?”

“About thirty seconds, not too long,” he answered. Thirty seconds isn’t very long. But it is long enough for a child to drown. It is long enough to change life forever.

I read that the instinct to fight, flailing arms and thrashing about to stay above the water, is what usually exhausts a drowning victim and speeds up the drowning process. I never fought to get above the water. Perhaps that is why I lived. Perhaps that is why I walked away from that near-drowning with no memories of ever being afraid, but instead I remember it as one of the most profoundly peaceful times in my life.

There are bills to pay, my car is making a strange sound, the sink in the kitchen is leaking…I am drowning.

I can’t hold my breath any longer. I am drowning. I am tired. One, two, three seconds. Responsibility is dragging me down, like a heavy stone tied to my ankles. I am drowning. Four, five, six seconds. The load is pulling me down, down, down. It is too heavy. I am tired. I am drowning. Eight, nine, ten seconds. This drowning isn’t easy. It isn’t quiet. It isn’t beautiful. Eleven, twelve, thirteen seconds. I want to fight. I want to flail my arms and fight to breathe. I am drowning in an ocean of responsibilities. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen seconds.

I was drowning once. I survived. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen seconds. What did I do? How did I survive? Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two seconds. I did not struggle. I went with the flow of the water. I waited and I watched. 

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five seconds. I saw the beauty around me. A beautiful mass of curls floating above me in the sea of blueness. Twenty-six, twenty-seven seconds. Yes, life is good, I have food, I have clothes, I have a home. I have people who love me. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine seconds. Help is closer than you think. The water might get murky. Things might get rough. It might hurt, but you will breathe air again. Thirty seconds. Breathe, breathe, breathe. 

You are alive.

Often in life when we feel like we are drowning in despair or we feel overwhelmed by the burden of our responsibilities, we need to stop struggling. Stop fighting so hard. Stop flailing and thrashing. Just wait, go with the flow, see what happens.

Life can change in as little as thirty seconds. Take thirty seconds and focus on something positive. Take thirty seconds and breathe deeply, in and out, in and out. Just sit in silence. Give yourself thirty seconds to put worrying out of your mind. Give yourself thirty seconds free of struggling against life. So much can change in thirty seconds.