All during the games, I had felt so deserted by God, so empty. I would go to pray at night and I just couldn’t find the words, so I would sit there in his presence and be like, God, I have nothing to say to you right now, but I’m here and I’m devastated and I’m still bringing this to you.
I was desperate for a sign, a message . . . something. I didn’t want an explanation. I didn’t want an excuse. I just wanted to know that he was there, so I kept praying, praying, praying, the whole time not really saying anything, and still I was looking, looking, looking to feel his presence.
I was alone in this, mostly. I could talk to my parents about the disappointment of the games, but only on a surface level. I could talk to my best friend Kristen, and maybe a couple of my teammates. I could talk to the two psychologists working with the swim team in Rio. But there was no way to fill the hole I was feeling in my relationship with God—nobody to talk to other than him.
I was still feeling this emptiness when it came time to leave Rio, and I remember thinking maybe I’d have better luck finding some kind of peace or closure away from the excitement and anxiety of the games. I was on a flight with my parents, in the middle seat between them, which meant I’d have two shoulders to lean on, one on either side. But United bumped me up, which was a great surprise, and I jumped at it for the extra legroom. My plan was to stretch out and sleep, but when I sat down I was joined by a youngish-looking man, probably in his late thirties, early forties. We smiled at each other, said a brief hello, but as we were getting ready to take off, several people came up to me, asking for an autograph or a picture. Flight attendants, pilots, some passengers as they were making their way to their seats. I didn’t mind it at all. Honestly, I was a little surprised (and excited!) that people even wanted my autograph at all, after the Olympics I’d had. I figured the commotion would die down as soon as the cabin doors were closed and we pulled from the gate, so I just smiled my way through it all.
Finally, the cabin quiet, my new seatmate turned to me and said, “I’m such an idiot. Clearly, you’re famous. People know you, but I have no idea who you are. I’m so sorry.”
This, to me, was the definition of no biggie. Really, I’m just about the last person to care about not being recognized—in fact, it’s always a good and welcome thing, for the way it allows you to meet someone on equal footing. So I told this man not to worry, there was nothing to apologize for. Then I told him I was a swimmer. That’s all, just a swimmer.
Still, he had no idea who I was, but since we were coming from Rio and he’d just been to the games, he was able to figure out that I must have just competed, but he didn’t follow swimming at all. He had no idea of my story, no idea what I’d been through that week. He’d only been in Rio to meet up with his girlfriend, who was working there during the Olympics, but they weren’t connected to the athletes in any way and had only taken in a few events.
For this man and his girlfriend, Rio was mostly about the scene. For me and my parents, it was something else entirely.
Again, he apologized for not knowing who I was.
Again, I told him it was fine. Really.
I asked him what he did for a living and he told me he was a cancer doctor. It was not at all the answer I was expecting. I said, “Wow, that’s absolutely incredible. Congratulations.”
Well, this was not at all the response he was expecting, and he thanked me for it. He said, “When I tell people what I do, they usually look at me with really sad eyes and tell me how sorry they are for me.”
I could see that, I guess. But I didn’t want this guy to think I wasn’t sympathetic to his daily struggle, so I said, “Don’t get me wrong. I can’t imagine what you go through. The strength you must have, to do what you do for so many people. It’s just incredible.”
Then I went on to tell him that one of my favorite things to do was to visit the oncology ward at the hospital and spend some time with the kids there, and that led to a whole conversation that had nothing at all to do with swimming or the Olympics or the dispiriting week I’d just had in Rio. It felt so good to be outside myself, to be outside my head, even just for those few moments. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I said at one point, “and please tell me if it’s too personal, but as an oncologist, as a person who deals with life-and-death situations every single day, are you a man of faith?”
I’m sorry, but I just had to ask.
And my new friend, to his great credit, was only too happy to answer. He said, “I’m not religious, but I’m a believer.”
He said he considered himself a Christian, and he went on to speak movingly about God and Christ, redemption and salvation. Clearly, he’d spent some time thinking these things through, and he was so, so generous in sharing his thinking.
I said, “Oh my gosh, that’s so awesome that you have that kind of foundation to rely on while you’re going through what you go through.”
Then he turned the question on me: “Are you a woman of faith?”
I told him that I considered myself a devout Christian, and that I’d been struggling that week for some sort of sign from God, some way to know that I was not alone, which of course prompted this man to ask me how things had gone for me at the Olympics. I mean, he had absolutely no idea who I was, no idea how the games had gone for me—it was just an innocent question from this total stranger. And I opened up to him, in a big-time way. I told him how devastated I was—how flattened, really. I told him about the year I’d taken off to train, about leaving all my friends at Cal and coming home to live in my parents’ basement, about all these expectations I’d carried with me to Rio. I told him how I’d been grasping for a certain something I couldn’t quite get my hands on, how there’d been nothing in my experience, as an athlete or as a person, that could have prepared me for such a letdown. And this man listened. We ended up talking for the next hour or so, sharing our most deeply personal and spiritual thoughts, and I started to feel like God was speaking to me through this man. It sounds crazy, I know, but this was my thinking. I’d been longing to hear from him, in some way, and here he was, speaking to me through this kindhearted oncologist who’d had no idea who I was before he sat down next to me. It was the most remarkable thing. This man was talking to me about our value on this earth, about how we are so much more than our accomplishments, about how difficult it is to be everything to everyone at all times. Together, we touched on all these subjects, all these thoughts and feelings I hadn’t been able to put into words, hadn’t been able to hear from anyone else since I found myself struggling at trials, and now it felt to me for the first time like I could put these trials behind me. At long last.
About an hour into our soul-searching, my doctor friend looked me in the eyes and said, “I am so happy for you.”
I knew right away what he meant, and I started crying.
He said, “I am so happy you are going through such a challenging time, because that means God is going to do incredible things in your life, and he is working through you right now, in ways you cannot yet know.”
It was such a beautiful, empowering thought, exactly what I needed to hear, and what I took it to mean was that God was so prevalent in my life at that moment, working so much within me and through me, and that he had been there all along. I was so grateful, that this man was giving voice to what I’d been aching to hear. And I said as much. I told the doctor that I’d never felt like God had spoken so directly to me through another human being. I told him it was such a gift, him sitting down next to me.
We talked awhile longer. The doctor told me how lucky he thought I was because when I fall short it doesn’t come at a real cost. “When I fail, people die,” he said. “Even when I do everything right, sometimes people die. But you have a different blessing. When you fail, you carry it on your heart.”
There I was, on this ten-hour plane ride from Rio, with Jesus at my side. That’s what it felt like to me, sharing s
uch a meaningful conversation with this man. It was so uplifting! So calming! After that first hour, I felt so relaxed, so at peace with myself, that I fell asleep. It was the best sleep I’d had since we left training camp, and I only woke up when we touched down in Houston, where we scrambled to gather our things and make our connecting flights—him, to Dallas; me and my parents, to Denver.
My parents caught up to me from the back of the plane, and I could tell that my mother was eager to take my pulse, see how I was doing.
“How was your flight, sweetie?” she said.
At just that moment, I couldn’t think how to tell her about this doctor, about the meaningful conversation we’d shared, about the revelation I’d felt, seeing my Olympic experience from his reassuring perspective. The best I could come up was “Good.”
And it was.
A footnote . . . (actually, a side note, as you’ll see . . .)
One of the first things I did after my disappointing showing at trials was make an appointment to heal. That sounds a little strange, I know, but let me explain. For the longest time, after London, I believed the Olympic rings I’d gotten tattooed to my hip would be the only body art I’d ever wear. For swimmers, those rings are like a rite of passage—I went to get mine done at a shop near my house with Kara Lynn Joyce, in a moment chronicled in the documentary we made, Touch the Wall, and at the time I told everyone the tattoo would be my one and only.
But something changed in me this past year, as I trained for these Rio games. I started thinking about what it means for me to feel at home, to be at peace with myself, and what it means to feel God’s eternal love above all else. More and more, I came to realize that this thought was embodied in the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, right in my own backyard. There’s a powerful verse—Isaiah 54:10—that I’ve always looked to for strength: “‘Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,’ says the Lord, who has compassion on you.” Those words are a reminder that even though the earth may shake and the mountains may crumble, we will continue to stand. They take me back to knowing that the power that lifted Jesus Christ from the dead resides within me, and to feeling like that power resides in these great mountains that have enveloped me my entire life. These earthly concerns are fleeting, after all, and even though the mountains in our life might crumble, even though our hopes might be dashed and our dreams forced to fade, God’s love will sustain us.
So that was the idea I’d been carrying around in my head for the longest time, and alongside that there was also this: when I came back to Colorado after my first two years at Cal, I started to think about what it meant to be home. You have to realize, I am so, so in love with Colorado. Always have been, always will be. I’ve had the best life here, the best childhood, the best parents, the best neighborhood . . . everything was just so perfect. But what I was slow to appreciate was that Berkeley had very quickly become my home as well, and as I struggled through trials I found myself longing to get back there, and to live there with the same intention and love and sense of place that I carried in Colorado. One way to help with that, I thought, was to get a tattoo of a Rocky Mountain vista, so that my “home” could follow me, everywhere I go.
In this way, the idea for a second tattoo came together, so I made an appointment at White Lotus Custom Tattoo—the same place I’d gotten my first tattoo—for right after the Olympics. I didn’t tell anyone, because I wanted to make sure I was doing it for myself, and when the games didn’t go my way it became something to look forward to. A place to channel my energy. The image of those mountains, and the passage from Isaiah they called to mind, told me I was not alone, at a time in my life when I felt so desperately alone. It goes back to what I was feeling as I was finding my way in the pool, searching for some sort of sign from God that he was with me on this journey.
I sat with the tattoo artist for an hour, designing the piece. Because, hey, I wanted it to look sweet. I mean, that’s the whole point, right? And let me tell you, I feel like a rebel now, moving about the planet with the Rockies at my side . . . literally! (Huge shout-out to Daniel, the amazing artist who helped me to realize my vision!) You can’t see the tattoo in a practice suit, but if I’m goofing around on the beach in a two-piece, relaxing, on vacation, laying out, there it will be for all the world to see, and that leaves me feeling pretty great, because one of the empowering takeaways from these Olympic Games is that I’m so much stronger than I ever thought I was capable of being.
These mountains remind me that wherever I go, as long as I live with intention and purpose, I am home—and that, even in struggle, God is with me, always.
Relentless spirit . . .
The words mean something different to me now as I sign off. The relentless half of the phrase—the steady, foot-on-the-gas, eyes-on-the-horizon pursuit of a goal—that’s very much in place. The spirit part, too—because my faith has only deepened after the ways I struggled in Rio, the ways I’m struggling still.
But as I began this book, my focus was on the push, on powering forward, and not on me as a person, and so as I look ahead to the chapters still to be written in my life, I mean to put my spirit first. This, I suspect, will be a challenge for me, because I have tended to put others first. That’s how I’ve always liked it, how I’ve tried to live my life. I’m happiest when I know I’m making the people around me happy. But I can’t do the kind of job I want to do in the pool if I make others my main priority. I can only turn inward, and look to make myself whole. To lift my spirit to where I can be a different kind of light for others.
I’m determined to rediscover the joy of swimming that helped me to win all those medals in London, putting up times that still stand as world records, Olympic records. I don’t feel that joy right now, but I know it’s in me. Deep down. Somewhere. I need only to tap back into it, embrace it, make it once again my own.
Oh, I’ll still write the word on my wrist. I’ll wear my relentless ring, my relentless goggles, but now I’ve got other messages to go along with it. Now I look to the mantra bracelets I’ve taken to wearing this Olympic summer. Do you know about mantra bracelets? They’re the best! I was given my first by a little girl who also trains with Loren Landow. She was probably eight or nine years old, told me she swam for the Aces, another Colorado club. She approached me after one of my workouts, headed into trials, and gave me a little bag with an incredibly sweet note. Inside was a gold mantra bracelet with the following message: “She believed she could, so she did.”
The words struck me. I wore that bracelet all the time, and as soon as I got back from Rio I bought myself two more—one in silver, one in bronze—to complete the set.
The silver: “Enjoy the journey.”
The bronze: “Be true, be you, and be kind.”
The first represents my mind-set going into trials. She believed she could, so she did. The others represent this new approach, because my belief in myself was now shaken, and I knew I needed the time to build myself back up again.
Relentless . . . that’s still who I am, how I am, at bottom. Steady and persistent. A hard-charger, to the core. All-out, all the time. But now my spirit is very much in play, very much front and center, and I look to my wrist each day and remind myself to enjoy the journey, to be true to myself, good to myself.
To trust in me, above all.
My parents on their wedding day in Halifax, Nova Scotia, September 4, 1971. Dad forgot to wash his hair!
All photographs courtesy of the authors.
Here’s a great shot of Mom and her sister Cathy. Mom is about seven, and Auntie C.J. is about three.
Two days old, heading home from California to Colorado.
All dressed up for my christening, on Dad’s fiftieth birthday. My dress was a present from my godparents, Aunt Deb and Uncle Harry.
At fourteen months, at our home in Grand Lake—a
lready rocking the team gear!
Date night with Dad. We were headed off to see Annie, which is still one of my favorite shows.
With Mom after a day in the sun. Look at all those freckles!
First day of kindergarten. Check out my color-coordinated outfit—I’m pretty cool.
At five years old, in my Speedo suit, for my first swim meet with the Heritage Green Gators.
Here’s a page from the very first book I wrote. It was a little shorter than this one!
At seven, skiing with my father at Winter Park, Colorado. Already loved the trees and moguls!
With the fam in 2002 in Muskoka, Canada.
At twelve, at IU–PUI, waiting for the pool to be measured to verify my National Age Group records.
At twelve, with my coach Todd Schmitz at the Sportswomen of Colorado awards ceremony. How young we both look! I hadn’t given Todd any gray hair yet!
So proud to earn my first Team USA uniform before my trip to Vancouver with the junior national team for my first international meet.
At my first Olympic trials. I’d just turned thirteen.
After the London games, my hometown of Centennial presented me with a key to the city. (My cheeks still hurt from smiling!)
With my best friend, Kristen Vredeveld, freshman year. We were painting the Big C—a swim team tradition.
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