Illustration by Rania Abdallah
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
It’s hard to say exactly when the world turned grey. I could sense that the colours of my life were fading but it’s like the metaphor about boiling a frog. The temperature of the water increases so gradually, degree by degree, that the frog doesn’t even realize it’s being boiled alive until it’s too late.
It’s strange to feel nothing for the things you once cared about. Stranger still, feeling detached around the people you love. Or worse, irritated because their joy is something you can’t seem to access anymore.
My mom, who is sunshine in human form, would call me and I could barely hold a conversation. I’d be so distant that she’d pause and ask if I was still there. I’d snap, say I was tired and end the call. I’d try to pinpoint when I became this person that I don’t recognize anymore. One that I don’t even like.
The brain fog is just as bad. Everything feels like nothing, so it all blurs together. Did I send that e-mail? How did I miss a meeting? When did I start forgetting birthdays or bills or brushing my teeth? How is it that I don’t even care?
I knew I needed to find ways to compensate for my hollowness. I could still be funny, fake excitement or feign interest. For a long time, my days were a symphony of survival mechanisms with me as the semi-functional conductor. Until one day, I broke.
I am pulling myself back in a way I did not expect.
A visit to the mall with mom is just as important as our fancy vacations
Recently, I walked into my local community centre under the same fog that had followed me since I left my doctor’s office. It was exactly what I expected: bright, practical and familiar in a way that tugged at my childhood. The air smelled faintly of chlorine and the space echoed with the sound of sneakers squeaking, kids laughing and the rhythmic thud of a squash ball.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the women at the front desk. “I’ve never been here before, but I saw online that you have lane swimming?”
The woman nodded, explained how it worked and handed me a laminated pass for the lifeguard. “That will be $4,” she said.
Tapping my card, I thought about how I’d grappled with the idea of going to a gym that was $300 a month. As if being in close proximity to a smoothie bar and eucalyptus towels was the cure to my depression and burnout. I felt embarrassed at the thought.
Walking toward the pool, I thought about how much time I spent in one as a kid. I was a competitive swimmer, swimming up to 20 hours a week. My imagination ran wild in a pool. First, I was a mermaid. Then I was out-swimming imaginary sharks. Later, as a synchronized swimmer, I became a dancer in the water.
A dull ache moved through me as I realized how long it had been since I’d done a single lap. It’s like that awful realization that your parents picked you up one last time but you never savoured it because you didn’t know it was the last time.
As I scoured the depths of my memories, I unexpectedly started to feel something else. It was anticipation. A pulse. I was excited to get into the water.
After climbing in, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that my body remembered something I thought had been long abandoned. One arm forward. Fingertips below the surface. Catch the water. Bend your elbow, draw your hand beneath you, sweep it back toward your hip. Release. One, two, three, breathe. Exhale underwater. Feel your lungs empty and your body’s desire for air.
After a few laps, tears filled the cheap goggles I’d bought the night before. I realized I’m still in here, somewhere. I rinsed my goggles, put them back on and kept swimming. One, two, three, breathe. Exhale underwater. Do it again.
When I climbed out, I watched the quiet choreography of the pool. Two seniors swam side by side, talking and laughing between laps. A man at the edge of the fast lane stretched with the seriousness of Michael Phelps. A young woman rushed in, likely trying to fit some movement into her lunch break. Strangers, all of us, each trying to reclaim 45 minutes of our day. To feel something. To jump into the water and come up for air.
Community centres aren’t glamorous, but maybe that’s why they’re so important. They remind us that wellness was never meant to be exclusive or solitary. It’s about access, connection and belonging. It’s about trying something new or rediscovering something you thought you’d lost. It’s realizing that you’re part of something larger than yourself, which, as it turns out, is wellness in its purest form.
I’ll never pretend I have all the answers. The world still feels cruel and I still feel colour blind. But under fluorescent light, in shared air, among the small sounds of other people simply living, I caught a glimpse of colour.
Taylor Squires lives in Toronto.