Choked.

Running late, it had taken forever to find a taxi, I scrambled past the other kids and rushed straight to my team.

“The race is about to begin, we were waiting for you,” said my captain. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it.”

My competition was lined up, ready to dive. Adrenaline pumping, I got rid of my clothes, and was in position mere seconds before the whistle. Next thing I knew, I was in the water — A perfect dive, deep enough to mermaid my way to the surface, just like in the Olympics and not so deep that I was losing air.

I was already in first place before my first breath, my arms effortlessly cutting through the water, my legs in perfect symmetry, knees straight, one, two, three… one, two, three.

A breath every three strokes will preserve my speed, every four will be too slow and every alternate stroke will kill my energy before the second lap.

I was Moses, parting the ocean with the power of my mind. “Don’t look around, don’t look down, just look straight ahead at that beautiful blue tile,” I said to myself. I had never felt more powerful. I owned this moment.

It was time for the turn, I had to make sure to touch the wall — one hand, not two, should I tumble or should I turn? Which will it be? Don’t want water in my nose, but screw it, I can’t lose. I saw their faces, the kids sitting on the diving board, watching my turn. No one knew I could be that fast, I smiled. A perfect tumble, a powerful kick and my already significant lead grew.

One, two three… one, two, three.

It was towards the deep end now, I’d never been in this pool before. It was deep.

One, two three… one, two, three.

Don’t look down, just keep staring straight ahead. You’re winning, you have a massive margin. The depth can’t catch you, you’re at the surface, you’re swimming. Just keep going, don’t stop, don’t stall.

It was so deep.

All of a sudden, I was being swallowed by the water, my lungs were on fire, I screamed. Coughing and spluttering, my perfect strokes giving way to a doggie paddle, I emerged from my trance and looked around.

The others maintained their pace, one quickly outstripped me. I paused for a second to catch my breath and another overtook me. Everyone was shocked, I could see their faces, incredulity, disappointment.

I tried to catch up, but it was too late — I made it to the finish, but only for a bronze.

My next four races were downers, I did well. After all, I’d been practicing for weeks. But it wasn’t the perfect score. I wasn’t the best at the one thing I had always been the best at.

I went home with five medals, we even won the relay. But that dull bronze stared back at me accusingly, “ You choked,” it whispered in my ear — “you always choke.”

Ten years later the memory of that day still haunts me.

Every time I get close to completion on a big task, that bronze stares back at me. Whenever I feel the adrenaline pumping, the rush that comes with a win, my mind takes me back to that moment. The sinking feeling returns and I want to stop. I want to scream.

One, two, three… deep breath.

It passes.