A Coach, A Chapter, A Complicated Gratitude

Today I learned of the sudden passing of someone widely regarded as a cornerstone of the college swimming community.

His legacy is expansive. His influence undeniable.

But for me, it lives in one narrow, unforgettable chapter of my story.

The year and a half I spent at that university remains one of the most complicated seasons of my life. When I look back, I don’t feel just one thing. I feel many. Sadness. Pride. Regret. Gratitude. Confusion. Strength. All layered together.

The news of his passing didn’t simply make me mourn — it unlocked memories. Both good and hard. Memories that had quietly settled over time, suddenly rising to the surface.

I arrived at college barely eighteen. Young. Driven. Immature in ways I couldn’t see yet. Swimming had always been the place I felt most certain of myself. It consumed my days — nine swim practices a week, three days in the weight room, competitions on weekends. If I wasn’t in class, I was in the pool. If I wasn’t in the pool, I was thinking about it.

When it became clear that nursing school and Division II athletics were going to collide, I made a decision that changed the trajectory of my early career. It felt easier to change my major than to step away from the one thing that had always defined me.

So I swam harder.

I hyper-focused. I poured everything into one piece of my life. I swam until I physically couldn’t continue — and then I swam some more. Meanwhile, other parts of my life quietly slipped behind. Academics. Balance. Perspective.

Despite giving everything to the sport, I thought about quitting constantly.

That was my first real experience with emotional contradiction — wanting something deeply while simultaneously wanting to run from it. I didn’t have the language for that at eighteen. I only had instinct. And eventually, I walked away.

On paper, I had potential. All-American. High expectations. Spotlight. The team was strong. The reputation mattered. The standard was excellence.

And our coach demanded it.

He was not gentle. He was not soft. He was not affirming in the ways we often celebrate today. He was intense. Loud. Abrasive at times. He pushed without apology. He expected perfection and rarely accepted excuses.

I struggled under that weight.

Where some leaned into the pressure and sharpened, I shrank. I internalized. I didn’t know how to articulate what I was feeling, so I absorbed it. And eventually, instead of facing the discomfort, I ran.

For a long time, I carried that season as something that broke me.

But time has a way of reframing things.

I can see now that even in the breaking, something was being built. Resilience. Endurance. The understanding that I do not respond well to fear-based pressure — but I do respond to challenge when it is anchored in belief. The realization that leadership style matters deeply. That intensity without attunement can fracture some and fuel others.

He pushed me to my limits.

And while the process was painful, it laid a foundation. Not for the swimmer I might have been — but for the leader I would become.

The dichotomy is real. I can acknowledge that the experience was hard — even too hard at times — while also honoring that it shaped me in ways I could not have understood then.

When I see the tributes shared by former teammates and athletes whose lives he profoundly impacted, I don’t feel disconnected from that. His impact on me was profound too.

Just different.

Growth is rarely clean. Neither are the people who help create it in us.

Today, I don’t sit in resentment. I sit in reflection.

I am grateful for the strength that season carved into me. Grateful for the lessons in pressure, identity, and resilience. Grateful that even in the moments I felt broken, something inside me was still forming.

Rest peacefully, Coach.

Your chapter in my story was complicated — but it mattered.

And it helped make me who I am.