A Fork in the Road by Brooke

A Fork in the Road by Brooke - February 2024 Scholarship Essay

“It’s your choice,” my psychologist said. Three words simple in nature yet amplified the inconceivable decision I’d avoided for years. Evasion was no longer an option. It was perseverance versus health. Only I could choose.

Food and swimming. Two passions that have been a constant in my life since childhood. Both have become addictions over time. And each has altered the intended pathway I had shaped for my educational future and impending career.

My mother introduced me to swim team at eight. When she first suggested it, I told her the water was for handstands and cannonballs. Evidently my opinion mattered little, as it was less than a week later that I found myself nervously shivering on the side of the pool wearing a new pair of pink goggles.

Fast forward two years, and I had become a competitive swimmer among the top of my age group in the county. I competed regularly in Age Group Championships and Junior Olympics, consistently placing within the top eight finalists in multiple strokes. I was selected to compete as part of a San Diego All-Star team in Arizona. At the height of my career, I qualified in the top ten percent of the western United States in four events, including the mile. By fourteen, a scholarship to college became my motivation, and I hadn’t even entered high school yet. However, my ambition was overpowered by an eating disorder.

When my career showed promise, the line between competitive swimmer and daughter became blurred for my mother. Rolling her eyes as I reached for a second snack or reminding me that I needed to be able to fit into my swimsuit might’ve been harmless, but I could only perceive control. She had it and I didn’t. That perception led to rebellion. And eating anything that I could, in any quantity managed, in those few precious moments when she wasn’t watching, wasn’t listening for the opening of the refrigerator or pantry door. Eating led to an action far more sinister, with significantly deeper physical and mental consequences than I could conceive. It consumed me quickly. By the time I recognized the signs for what they were, shame had ensued. Embarrassment led to concealment, concealment to dishonesty.

Lying became instinctual. I was a straight-A student, a dedicated athlete, and a self-conscious liar compelled by the desire to lessen the tension within the household. It was shockingly comfortable to live under a shroud of deceit if I could justify the means. Until March 2020, when the world came to a standstill because of coronavirus.

Being under house arrest with no freedom from my mother’s ever watchful eyes proliferated my disease. Until one day, when my mother could no longer ignore the visible signs she had cautiously neglected, I confirmed her deepest fear. We both recognized we were unequipped to win this battle without professional assistance. Yet our quest for a mental health therapist incessantly resulted in unanswered ringing or a voice mail with an insincere promise to return the phone call. Until Dr. Marianne Miller randomly picked up her phone. Whether by mistake or design, that ten-minute conversation articulated my unease straightforwardly: a commitment to focusing on my health could come at the expense of my dream. Allowing my body and mind time to heal meant acceptance that I might never be the swimmer I was. This was my fork in the road: one way would lead to a potential college scholarship, the other to health.

I chose my health. I spent five months in therapy, rebuilding my relationship with food, and my mother, whilst healing from the dishonesty and shame I had confronted. Subsequently, unforeseen obstacles battered my recovery: disappointment from my coaches; lack of understanding from my teammates; friends who couldn’t sympathize with my grief; and the impending isolation that followed. After six months, I began swimming again, and gratefully discovered my love for the sport had not diminished.

I’ve now been in recovery for two years. I’m at peace with my decision. I accept the reality that swimming in college is not probable. I’ve discovered a love for my new role as captain to my high school teammates. My thirst for winning has turned to leadership. The tumultuous relationship with my mother has reconfigured and I am her priority now, not swimming. As I transition to the next stage in my life, I recognize that it might be altered from what I envisioned, but that doesn’t make it less invigorating.

Ironically, the choice I made to further my career ended up destroying it. Nonetheless, it allowed me to discover another passion: psychology. The relationship with my therapist sparked an inspiration to help other teenage athletes suffering from my same misfortune. And the difficulty of locating a therapist highlighted an alarming deficiency at a time when the mental health crisis is intensifying. I want to do my part in ensuring that specialized support is available for every adolescent that needs it in their time of crisis. I want to pay it forward. I strive to take an active role in bringing our mental health predicament under control. And even though I won’t be swimming in college, I’m grateful for the introduction to my future journey.