Beneath the Surface

by Libby Trickett

  I didn’t feel threatened, though. In fact, in a way I felt like I had come home. My mind was calm and focused on the task at hand, honed after more than a decade into a tool that was optimised for competition. I didn’t think about the changing of the guard. I didn’t think about my age. I didn’t even think about the coming Olympic Games, because you can’t. You can’t allow any of those doubts or complications to creep in, because they will sink you. You can’t consider the fact that you have a single 53-second window, every four years, in which you can achieve your lifelong ambition, and you may only really be ready for that opportunity once or twice in your career. That is the reality. But reality has no place in dreams. To be the best, you have to still your mind and focus. You have to let go. I’m strong, I’m fit, I’m healthy, therefore I’m fast. No doubts, no regrets, I’m just here to have fun.

  The first two days of competition were dedicated to the 100-metre butterfly. I came third behind Jess Schipper and Alicia Coutts, trailing by a second, so I missed out on an individual spot at the Olympics. I hadn’t regained my peak condition in the butterfly, but I was still disappointed, mostly because qualifying would have taken the pressure off for the rest of the meet. Still, I swam my fastest time in the butterfly since coming out of retirement, and that at least was comforting. My body was excelling under pressure. I realised, though, that it may have been my easiest race because the lactic acid and muscle tiredness hadn’t kicked in yet.

  The 100-metre freestyle races came on days five and six of trials, and I did what I had to do in the heats and the semis to make it through to the final. In the heats, I swam 35 metres at my full competition pace. I swam 50 metres of the semi-final at full clip, saving my energy for the race that counted. The following day, I stepped up to the block for the finals feeling like I had done everything I could to prepare for this moment.

  I went out strong. I didn’t spin my wheels when I hit the water and my front-end speed was great, and even coming off the wall I felt like I had form. But in the last 15 metres I felt it ebbing away. Usually, in the last 15 metres, I could reach inside me and draw on an extra reserve of energy to either power myself forward or hold my competitors at bay. But that day in Adelaide, I reached in and there was nothing there. I was at my limit. I swam my best race on the day but it just wasn’t fast enough, and I finished fifth in the race.

  My reaction was mixed. I knew it was likely I would be selected for the freestyle relay team—the top four were guaranteed; fifth and sixth were discretionary, but were usually selected as backups in case one of the lead swimmers was out of form or got injured. I had never been prouder in my life to qualify for the Olympic Games, because I knew I had truly climbed a mountain, to come out of retirement in very bad shape and make it back onto the world stage. It had been so incredibly hard to get back to that level, and I’d definitely earned my place. But I was incredibly disappointed not to win a spot in the individual 100-metre freestyle event. I wouldn’t get the opportunity to race at that top level again, which was something I loved so much. It was my truest, deepest passion, and had driven me for so many years of my life. Now it had slipped from my grasp, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I cried a flood, but they were mostly happy tears. To have set my mind on this Olympic goal and have achieved it was a beautiful thing, and I was old enough and wise enough then to be grateful. I stepped up for the 50-metre freestyle race with a lighter heart. In 24 seconds, it would all be over, one way or another. It wouldn’t hurt the way that other races did. I placed fourth behind the Campbell sisters and Yolane Kukla—again, I just didn’t have quite enough in the tank. Perhaps I hadn’t had enough training time, or enough race experience since my comeback, or maybe it was just that my body was older. So my London Olympics wouldn’t involve an individual race—that was that. But I was going to the Olympics for a third time, and that was something truly special.

  I had four months from March to July to try to make the cut for the freestyle relay team. That was the last and only goal I had, and my focus sharpened on it like a laser beam. Ten pool sessions a week, cardio, weights, core sessions, bike sessions, always pushing myself to be as fast and as strong as possible. I wasn’t swimming butterfly but I continued to do it in training, because the intensity of the stroke improved my cardiovascular fitness and power through the water.

  The assumption was always that the top two swimmers would race in the finals at the Olympics, but the third and fourth spots were generally open to selection, based on performances in the heats in London. All the swimmers who were vying for the second two spots would get a run, so I knew I had a chance to prove myself and be in the race for a medal. Many of my competitors were keeping logbooks in training to track their times, repetitions and performances, but I didn’t take much notice of that. It could be a source of confidence if you were constantly improving, but I knew it could also be a real downer if for some reason your performance dipped. And what could you really do with that information? I didn’t think it would help me. I did the best I could in every training session and I had faith in the process.

  Stephan wrote everything down, of course, but he used the information judiciously. If I did a faster time, he told me, otherwise I didn’t hear about it. I didn’t have to carry the burden of knowing how I fluctuated from day to day. I was free to feel like I was swimming as well at 27 as I had when I was twenty, whether or not that was actually true, and it did wonders for my confidence. I worked, I had faith, I felt emotionally and psychologically free, and that made me as strong as I could be.

  Luke and I were strong as well, as strong as we had ever been. Through our time apart, we had learned to really communicate with each other—to talk to each other instead of at each other. We had also learned to work together to do better if something wasn’t working for either of us. It was the foundation from which I launched into my dreams and goals, including my final Olympic Games.

  London was like a home away from home. The culture seemed not that far removed from ours, and there were so many Australians there when we arrived that it felt like we were playing to a home crowd. It was also the first Games I had attended in an English-speaking country, so everything seemed familiar and I felt comfortable and very supported. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. My only concern was whether I would be selected to race, and that decision was entirely in the hands of the coaches. I knew what my capabilities were, and that my body was capable of one great performance, but I was in a position where I had to swim for my life in the heat. I didn’t know if I had two top-level swims in me, in one day. The seven hours between the two races wouldn’t be enough time for me to recover.

  Ahead of the Games, Shannon had told me I was virtually guaranteed a spot in the final team—I assumed this was because of my experience racing at the top level. But by the time we arrived he had revised his position, and I would be swimming for my spot in the heat. I had been trying to be very open and honest with the coaches, and I told them that I couldn’t in good conscience swim my top speed just to make the final relay team, knowing that it would be to the detriment of my performance that night. ‘I’m going to do the work I need to do to put our team in a good position in the final,’ I said. ‘But I’ll back off if I can, so that I’m capable of racing my best in the final.’

  The coaches seemed to accept this, not insisting that I race my fastest, and I did my part to get the team into the final. In the end, however, I wasn’t selected. Alicia Coutts, who had placed sixth after me at the Olympic trials and didn’t race in the Olympic heats at all, was given the spot for the final race. I felt the fact that she trained at the Australian Institute of Sport may have been a factor, but perhaps that was just my own cynicism. Brit Elmslie took the second discretionary spot because she swam a millisecond or two faster than me in the heat, even though it was clear I had backed off in the final metres. For me, the most devastating thing was that the coaches delivered the news immediately after the heat, as if the selection had bee
n long decided. It all felt so ill-considered.

  It was a brutal experience for me, in the midst of an Olympics in which the whole Australian team was struggling. Our swimmers were failing to deliver, and throughout those Games the media scrutiny became more and more intense. It was like failure had given the media an excuse to pull back the curtain on the sport and judge whatever they saw beneath. Leisel Jones was fat-shamed on the front page of a newspaper, which was horrific. Cate Campbell got incredibly sick. Stephanie Rice couldn’t live up to her previous phenomenal record and was somehow made to feel small, despite her ongoing issues with a shoulder injury. James Magnussen, who had an actual advertising campaign declaring that he was going to win an Olympic gold medal, seemed unrecognisable in the water, as if he had collapsed under the pressure; it later emerged that the boys who swam in the men’s relay had been having Stilnox parties the week before the Games, which led to an absolute media circus, including an incredibly uncomfortable press conference involving the entire relay team.

  I didn’t escape the mud-slinging. It was reported that I had an expletive-laden rant in the cool-down area when they told me I hadn’t been selected, hurling c-bombs at Shannon and the head coach, Leigh Nugent. This literally did not happen, unless I somehow blacked out and wiped it from my memory. I didn’t use the ‘c’ word at all until many years later, after I started working in radio (and even then I could count the times I’ve used that word on one hand). But I missed the opportunity to defend myself because I didn’t check my voicemail, where a journalist had left a message asking me to respond to the accusations.

  After the article came out, I called the journalist and asked him who his source was. ‘This is just not who I am, or who I pride myself on being as an athlete,’ I told him. ‘If someone actually thinks this happened, I need to talk to them about it. It’s just not good for the Australian swim team to have toxic stories like this floating around.’

  He refused to tell me where he got the story from, which I found incredibly difficult. As disappointed as I was, I really believed I had tried to be a good sport. I know I cried about it when Brit and Alicia were selected, but I tried to keep my hurt private. I was a proud Australian, cheering for my teammates when they won gold in the relay—the only gold medal the Australian swimmers brought home that year.

  They had won, so obviously the coaches made the right decision. A very small part of me almost wished that they had come second, though, so I could somehow justify the feeling I had that they would have been better off with me in the team. I was shocked at the decision, and then sad—and then, when I was safely alone with Luke, angry at the politics and subjectivity that I felt had played a role in the decision. Most of all I just wanted to race. It hurt seeing my dream go up in flames.

  I had the same passion for swimming in London that I’d had as a little girl, when I’d insisted that Mum let me race with a broken arm. That feverish joy was still there inside me, but I couldn’t share it with the world anymore. The feeling was curiously bittersweet, because I finally appreciated how lucky I’d been ever to have had the chance.

  London was the end of my swimming career, but it was also the beginning of something very special. As I began to wind down, to stop fixating on the next goal, I was able to look back and start to appreciate all the incredible things I had achieved. Instead of cursing myself and criticising myself and feeling like a failure, I reflected and realised how incredible my career had been. It hadn’t come easily. I had worked hard for everything I’d achieved, but I could see how graceful the arc of my career had been, relative to that of other swimmers.

  Even the slow, downward swing of that arc was something I could be proud of. I had made it to a third Olympic Games, which was a rare achievement. And because I swam in the heats for the relay team, I took home a gold medal too. It’s the one that I most like to share with people, because it was the hardest one for me to earn. The athlete’s part of my brain still tells me I didn’t actually earn it because I didn’t swim in the final, but a far greater part of my brain recognises its true value. It’s an imperfect medal, and so it serves as an amazing metaphor for my entire career. It was hard to win, things didn’t always go according to plan, and I didn’t always execute my role exactly as I intended, but wonderful things still came of it.

  It’s the medal that best represents me and the career I have been blessed to have. I call it my people’s medal, because it represents the whole network of people who supported me. It’s one for me, looking back on my achievements with wonder, and for everyone in my life who helped me to live my dreams.

  Epilogue

  2019

  ‘I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it.’

  —Mae West

  No one is what they seem on the surface. Life is long and complicated, full of ups and downs, and it’s almost impossible to understand what someone else is going through at any given time. If there is a point to all this, it’s that things don’t always feel as great as they look, and sometimes they don’t look as great as they feel, and it’s hard to know the difference unless you listen to someone’s story. It’s hard to have real empathy for someone unless you’re paying attention.

  For me, the most interesting stories we can share about ourselves are the ones that are hidden from sight. For most people, I will only ever be Olympic swimmer Libby Trickett, who had a good run in the 2000s. But I’m not just a swimmer. I am not defined by a few gold medals. I’m a wife, a sister, a media personality, an Instagram addict, a daughter and a mum. I’m a dreamer and a ballroom dancing enthusiast. Sometimes I’m on top of the world and sometimes I’m hopeless, just like everybody else. But people don’t always see both sides of the coin. The dark side doesn’t always make headlines.

  My story is as much about struggle and self-doubt as it is about success, and I think it’s the struggle and self-doubt that make me human. I’ve learned to see all the messy, vulnerable parts of my life as the foundation of my perspective and wisdom, so in a way I’m grateful for everything that’s happened to me, the bad stuff as well as the good. It has all taught me something.

  As a swimmer, I learned the importance of focus and setting goals, and the value of hard work—but as I look back on that period of my life, I know that the real lesson I needed to learn was how to be in the moment, emotionally, and appreciate the wins when they came. I needed to learn how to be kind to myself and forgive myself for making mistakes. I needed to learn that not being perfect is perfectly okay.

  As a wife, I have learned how important it is to communicate. I was lucky to meet my soulmate at such a young age, but I never want to take that relationship for granted. As much as Luke drives me bonkers sometimes with his ridiculously rational brain, I know that I am blessed to have him on my team. And to be a good team, we have to be working towards the same goals. We have to check in with each other, talk to each other, make compromises and commitments, every day. I’ve learned that having fun with your partner is essential too. Otherwise, what are we here for?

  In my life after swimming, I’ve learned that not everything comes easily to me, and that’s okay. It’s alright to be lost sometimes on the path to finding yourself. It’s not even about being good at things, or living up to other people’s expectations of you, it’s about finding your passion—that thing that pulls you forward like a magnetic force, so that you don’t have to push. My whole swimming career was like that, driven by a deep love of the water, and of competition. I was so afraid that I would never feel that passion again, but every step I have taken since I retired for good has been a process of discovery, and I feel like I’m heading in the right direction. I can feel that energy still burning inside of me, and every day I feel more confident that I will find the right outlet for it.

  My experiences since I retired have opened up a whole new way of thinking about my body and what it is capable of, because I know now that it’s not just a machine that can be trained to compete; it’s also an outlet for grief
and an inspirer of joy. My body is a wonderful tool that is directly connected to my emotional world, and through it I have the power to make my life better. That knowledge is something I’d like to share with the world one day, in some new outlet.

  Meanwhile, my experiences with mental illness have taught me that it’s okay to not be okay. I didn’t recognise that I struggled with mental-health issues during my swimming career, and that made so many things so much harder than they needed to be. Like so many people, I subconsciously resisted the idea that there was something ‘wrong’ with me. Having anxiety or depression was a weakness, and I wasn’t weak. I just felt really, really awful sometimes, and told myself that was normal. After Poppy was born, when my depression was so intense that it broke through that wall of denial, I learned that real strength comes from reaching out and asking for help when you’re down. You’re not trapped, you’re not alone and there’s nothing wrong with you because you’re struggling. You’re just a human being. We all struggle sometimes. It’s okay. If we can all get better at talking about mental health, I think more people will ask for the help they need. I hope more than anything, if you have read my story and you are struggling, that you understand there is hope.

  My recovery from postnatal depression has been slow but steady. You don’t get better overnight, and there is always a risk that depression and anxiety will return. Sometimes I feel more vulnerable than at other times, and I still have moments of self-doubt, but watching Poppy grow into a lovely, kind little girl has really steadied my heart. When I saw the goodness in her, I realised that I wasn’t a shit parent, and that I hadn’t broken my child—she was actually very happy—and that gave me a deep sense of satisfaction and a sense that I was on the right path. When my second daughter, Edwina, was born, we had to navigate a whole new set of issues—severe allergies when she was a newborn, complete with terrible rashes and rivers of diarrhoea—but I felt so much stronger and more capable the second time around. I was certain that I could cope. And if I couldn’t cope, I knew there was a safety net.