It took me until somewhere in my Junior year at college to realize that I was just hyperventilating, that I didn’t have a heart condition, and that I could run more than two miles without feeling like death. I peeled those electrocardiogram sensors off of my chest, went outside into the cold, and really haven’t stopped running since. The ghosts of that time still linger - the feeling of futility during a cross country race in slushy north-eastern woodlands as a teenager is probably what prevents me from doing anything competitive to this day. I’ll tell you that it’s because running is for me, an act of meditation, but there’s another story under the surface.

In second grade my school had math square dances that taught multiplication tables. The “5-10-15” song is so catchy that you’d probably fake an injury to avoid hearing it, which is exactly what I did when I was eight. “I pulled my groin,” I cheerfully explained as I maneuvered my crutch to the side of the room. I don’t know if Mrs. Schleppi ever caught on, but in retrospect it must have been funny, even to my weirdly conservative christian school’s weirdly conservative elementary teachers. The truth: I wasn’t good at dancing, and I didn’t know how to fix the problem.

I didn’t grow up with video games, and on the rare occasions that I end up in social situations where people are good at them, I prefer to be a spectator. I find them disorienting, and I hate the feeling of losing for lack of fundamental skills rather than game difficulty. It wasn’t until buying a Nintendo that I realized that playing wasn’t a sort of innate skill, but rather something that’s learned and practiced over time. It seems comically obvious in hindsight.

I’d like you to think that I enjoy snowboarding, but the truth is I’m very happy to survive a few runs without any major damage and call it a day. “Text me if it’s great,” I’ll tell you over lunch. I’m good enough to not fall over, but going fast on snow is pretty terrifying. If I think about it too hard, I’ll forget to look where I’m going and wipe out instantly. Snowboarding isn’t natural, at least to me, and that’s how I decide if I’m good at it.

My parents sent me to swimming lessons at the local recreation center for years. On paper, it’s probably the sport my body was built for - I’ve been long and skinny for my whole life. I’m not entirely sure of facts at this point, but I failed multiple swim tests because I couldn’t do the back float, didn’t like the feeling of failure, and, as far as I can tell, I quit.

If you asked me about nature vs. nurture, I could ramble on about how study after study shows that in just about every discipline talent is equally distributed, but access to opportunity is not. I could tell you about people in my life who’ve worked incredibly hard to overcome obstacles and become world class at something they love. I could tell you all of these things and then laugh when I consider my own path.

I ran a lot last year, and I’m feeling good about that. I’m 37 though, and starting to realize that I probably can’t do this kind of high-impact exercise without real risks. There’s a pool in my neighborhood full of equal parts retirees and frenetic college students. A day pass and twenty hyperventilating laps later, I realized I was still that sinking kid in my head, aware of my mediocrity and unsure of what to do next.

Left to my instincts, I’d probably just not go back. I don’t like doing things I’m not naturally inclined to do. (This the same reason why I have an accountant.) This time, though, I’m trying a different approach: I got a coach for a few sessions. Though I’m probably not headed towards the Olympics any time soon, I don’t feel like I’m slowly drowning anymore. I’m moving faster with less effort. I almost enjoyed it earlier today.

It is the modern way to avoid discomfort, and it’s not all bad. I’ll probably just order delivery tonight instead of going out on a hunt for fruits and small game in the wilds of San Francisco. I can’t avoid everything I’m bad at, though, and growth sometimes requires that septuagenarians cruise by you as you struggle to make it to the end of the lap. Perhaps the real exercise in swimming is in just keeping my head down and allowing my ego to let go of the goal of perfection.