My friends stood at the edge of the pool deck. Family. People who knew me for years and some who just met me. Some close to where I stood. Others farther away, just watching. And that’s the part I can’t shake. They were watching.

Clear, cool water. Not cold but cool. The right temperature for competitive swimming. From the edge it looked deeper than expected. But I jumped, diving headfirst into the blue water before my mind got in the way and told me I couldn’t. My body knew what to do. How to hold my breath, only exhaling when absolutely necessary. Eyes open, my hand touched the bottom.

Jude. Years without my son. It’s the weight impossible to lift at first, but with community, family, and friends you work through it, figuring out the emotions, processing all of it.

That’s when you touch the bottom. And come back.

Those standing on the opposite side of the pool whispered their concerns.

Are you okay?

That was too deep.

You didn’t have to go there.

You’re still grieving.

That’s impossible.

How did you do that?

Their words sounded compassionate. I think they thought they were kind, showing their love. But the distance spoke louder than their words.

Those closer to where I jumped leaned in, dripping wet, soaked from their own dives. They said:

That was amazing.

What was your training like?

When my turn to dive comes, what should I expect?

My answer? There was no training.

I learned resilience from ultrarunning, putting in miles before the sun came up when my legs begged me to stop. I trained in rooms where people said “I’m with you” while their bodies were already halfway out the door. I kept showing up again. And again. And again. Quitting would’ve been easier. No one would’ve blamed me.

And I kept diving.

Not once. Not twice. Every time the water called, I jumped. Some days the pool was grief. Other days it was a hard conversation, a risk, a truth I didn’t want to face. Each time, the people on the deck asked the same questions.

Why are you going back in?

What’s the point?

Haven’t you gone deep enough?

I never had a good answer. I just knew that staying dry felt like dying slowly. The water was hard, but it was honest. The deck was safe, but it was small.

Running teaches you how and when to breathe. The pool didn’t change that. It showed me what I already knew.

Those who know the depth, the coolness of the water, the struggle to jump, the fear—these are the ones who meet you at the edge. But others, although they said otherwise, refused to get in the water.

Deep water makes you ready—not just to survive your own dive, but to stand at the edge when someone else jumps. Now you can encourage them, ready a towel for when they come up.

I’ve been on both sides of that pool deck. Watching. Diving. Holding the towel. The water doesn’t care which one you are today—only that you’re willing.

Alissa is that person for me. Standing at the edge, she didn’t ask how cold the water was or if her ears would pop at a certain depth. She didn’t need to. Thirty-six years of running her own emotional mileage taught her what I knew: you won’t drown in the depths you’ve trained to breathe through.

Someone’s watching you right now. Wondering if you’ll jump.