I’m at the deep end of the pool, holding on tight to its side, with two noodles stuck under my armpits. My swimming teacher says, ‘just relax. The more relaxed you are, the easier it will be.’ Easier said than done. It’s my third attempt at learning to swim. I’m everything BUT relaxed.

My first attempt was at the age of seven. I remember vividly that I kept drowning at the shallow end, swallowing and snorting bucketfuls of water. It was an experience that resulted in scary recurring dreams – featuring a pool filled with enormous, monster-like fish, and me falling into deep, dark water. I would wake up in my bed with a fright, gasping for air.

My second attempt came as I turned 28 and made a new year’s resolution to learn to swim again. My teacher was friendly, understanding and I thought we were building a good rapport. Until I realised exactly what kind of rapport he wanted to build, with long gazes, inappropriate comments, and staying just a little too close to me in the pool. I was out of there in no time.

I didn’t plan to go back to swimming, having decided it wasn’t an essential life skill for me and that I’m ok without it. Until this summer, when I moved from London to a seaside town in Dorset, England. Now being able to swim would unlock vast possibilities - from frolicking in the water on hot summer days to paddleboarding, kayaking, and other water sports with my friends.

And so, I found myself having swimming lessons again. I wanted to learn so badly, that I practiced with all my determination. My hands were rigid, my body was tense and I was rushing around as if I was chased by a sea monster, completely out of breath, with the bully in my mind telling me not to be a loser.