I Swam the Hardest Swim of My Life. I Did Not Finish.

I swam the hardest swim of my life, and I did not finish.

The water wasn't calm. Whitecaps rolled across the lake as my pilot, Sylvia, delayed the start, waiting for the wind to settle. Once it was time to go, I waited a minute before jumping in. I thought about what I was about to attempt: a double crossing of Lake Tahoe. Forty two point six miles at 6,225 feet above sea level. But you can't swim forty two miles all at once. Before I got in, I reminded my crew of something I'd been saying for months.

"The real swim starts at the turnaround."

Taking a moment to contemplate before jumping into the lake.

As I jumped into the water, it felt warm. Bumpy, but warm. The water was dark, but the moon was so bright it felt like someone had switched a spotlight on for me. I could see my family and my friends standing on the shore. I could see my crew on the boat. I never felt alone. 

The lake never quite made up its mind. It settled long enough for me to find my rhythm before turning choppy again. At one point it felt like we were crabbing sideways, though it may have been an illusion created by the moon crossing the sky. Every time I settled into my stroke, the water asked me to adjust. I joked with the boat that I chose a lake swim to avoid ocean conditions. I guess the joke was on me. 

I've never swum a swim where I was so aware the entire time. Normally, I can find the flow and just swim, but not this time. With no fish and nothing to look at, all I could see were the stars during feeds, so I occasionally flipped over to swim backstroke. I remember stopping and asking, "Which star is that? Which cluster of stars are those?" The sky was so beautiful, and the water was so warm. I felt exactly where I was supposed to be. I couldn’t have asked for a better headspace. At some point, I asked what my stroke rate was because I thought I was really cruising, and my crew said, "50." I was shocked. Surely I was doing at least 58, but no.

I had Emma get in to support swim right after Angela said, "This is the last feed with the moon." We got to watch the first light from the water, like we've done so many times before. I continued to swim as the sun came up and the shoreline grew closer. Finally, I could see the bottom. So thrilling. 

Emma swimming with me into the dawn.

"I can. I will. I am." 

Something I repeated to myself over and over. 

"I can. I will. I am."

As the shoreline came into view, I reminded Angela not to forget my Lindor chocolate when I returned. That was my reward for completing the first crossing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Emma sprinting to shore. As I got there, my legs felt unstable and I carefully took balanced steps around the rocks. I focused on a bright orange fishing pole holder. It gave me something steady to lock onto. 

Emma looked at me. "So, what do you need?" 

"Nothing," I replied. "I'm ready to go." 

I jumped back in the water, spending only 8 seconds on the shore, and started swimming. 

Unknown to my crew, things weren't perfect. About six hours earlier I had felt some congestion in my breathing. A couple of hours later my stomach began to hurt. I kept both to myself. I hoped they would pass. When I reached the boat after the turnaround, I finally told them about the stomach pain.

I had reached the halfway point.

My body already knew something I hadn't admitted yet.

The real swim had just begun.

Then breathing became a luxury.

About halfway home, Tahoe reminded me that it makes the rules.

The last thing I remember before the wind really arrived was Captain Kelly saying, "You're making this look easy."

"Everything hurts," I answered.

"Well, it doesn't look like it."

Gradually, the wind began to grow. I put my head down and tried to stop fighting the water. It felt like I had slowed way down, but supposedly I was making better progress. I couldn't find any rhythm or pattern to the water, and breathing became a luxury. I had to fight for every clean breath. Focusing on that distracted me from my exhaustion. My pain. Sometimes I guessed right, and sometimes I guessed wrong. I nearly inhaled water a number of times, but I was quick and ready to respond. I don't know how much time had passed when I said, "I am really worn down. I'm not sure how much more I can take."

Fighting for a clean breath in the wind and chop.

The swells frequently washed over me. It would be okay, and then it would feel like I was drowning, but I had done this before, and I knew I could swim in these conditions. I'm an ocean swimmer. Chop, wind, and swells are normal for me. I'd been here before. During my first double Anacapa attempt. During my English Channel swim.

But this time felt different. 

Angela's answer never changed. "Just get to sundown." She had seen me fight in Anacapa. She had been there in the English Channel. She knew what I was capable of, even when I wasn't so sure.

I could feel the panic setting in, but Kelley was in the water with me, and she met me with the calm only another marathon swimmer can bring. She breathed with me, matching my rhythm until mine slowed to hers. I felt tears welling up, not from stress or fear, but from pain. I was in so much pain, and I couldn't really identify where the pain was. 

With possibly two hours left of the wind, I put my head down and kept swimming. 

I felt like I was sinking with every stroke. My body hurt in ways I hadn't experienced before. My joints felt swollen. My stomach stabbed with sharp pains. Every breath felt strained. My muscles ached. I wasn't just tired.

I was empty. 

There was nothing left to do except take the next stroke.

“I can. I will. I am.”

The hardest decision wasn’t getting out. It was knowing it was time. 

When the wind finally settled, the real decision began.

I had been willing the sun to go down for hours because I knew the wind would ease once it did. I could feel the last rays of sunlight on the side of my face. The constant force that had been pushing me around all afternoon finally began to disappear. The lake became calm again. The moon started to rise.

This was supposed to be the easy part.

Instead, the calm brought something I hadn't expected.

Clarity.

For four hours, every ounce of my attention had been focused on surviving the conditions. Fighting for a clean breath. Reacting to the next swell. Staying present. The wind had become my distraction. Once it disappeared, all that was left was the pain.

I continued to swim, but I found myself stopping more often.

"You're swimming great."

"You look strong."

"You're swimming faster than you have the entire swim."

Every time I heard those words, I wanted to believe them. Did my stroke still look smooth? My pace had actually improved now that the lake had settled. But they couldn't feel what I was feeling. My joints still hurt. My stomach still twisted with pain. Every stroke felt heavier than the one before. My body was telling me something my mind didn't want to hear. I asked the question I had been avoiding.

"How much longer?"

With each breath I took towards the boat I saw Angela and Captain Sylvia talking. For the last four hours, Sylvia had been constantly adjusting the boat's course, balancing my pace against the wind and the changing conditions. They couldn't give me an exact answer because they didn't know exactly where the changing conditions would leave us.

Finally, Angela looked at me. "Here are the facts. You're not in danger. You're swimming faster than you have the entire swim. You have about five miles left. At this pace, probably three and a half to four hours."

Four hours.

Normally, those words would have meant nothing to me. Objectively, five miles isn't a long swim anymore. Under almost any other circumstance, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. I've trained for much longer than that. But this wasn't any other circumstance. Right then, it felt impossible. My mind kept searching for reasons to continue. My body kept answering back. I didn't want to quit. I wanted the pain to stop. Those are two very different things.

As a coach, I've always believed that swimmers have to truly want what they're chasing. When things get hard, that desire is what carries you forward. In that moment I searched for that feeling, and I couldn't find it. Not because I no longer wanted to finish the swim, but because my body had reached a place where it no longer believed it could. I also knew what those words meant. If I told my crew, "I don't think I want this anymore," they would believe me. And they would let me out.

I remember saying the words out loud.

"I don't think I want this anymore."

It wasn't surrender. Maybe I wasn't even trying to convince my crew. I was finally listening to what my body had been trying to tell me for hours.

I decided to end the swim.

Sylvia put the boat in neutral and told me I could climb aboard. As I reached for the boat, I immediately sank deeper into the water. I couldn't lift myself high enough to get on board. They had to pull me in. When I stood up, my legs wouldn't hold me. The shaking that had started in the water became violent. Only then did everyone begin to see what I had been feeling all along. I had reached the point where I needed to make a decision while I was still capable of making one. Angela had said to me, "You're not in danger." And all I could think was, “I think I might be.”

The swim ended. The questioning didn’t. 

I thought getting out of the water would be the hardest part. 

The next morning, I woke up, and every cell in my body hurt.

My joints were swollen. My muscles ached. Even breathing hurt. Twenty hours earlier I had been coughing under water so as not to alarm my crew, and although I had cleaned up just enough to crawl into bed after the swim, I still propped myself upright in case it happened again. My husband stayed awake beside me all night, quietly keeping watch while I tried to sleep.

The next morning, I shuffled into the kitchen. Within seconds, Angela and Emma were there. No one wanted me to be alone.

Everything felt heavy. The weight of my body. The weight of the disappointment.

For the first two days, I never questioned my decision. I knew how I had felt in the water. I knew how my body had responded when I tried to climb onto the boat. I knew I had reached the point where continuing no longer felt like determination. It felt like denial.

Then something changed. My body started to recover. The swelling eased. My breathing improved. My muscles ached less. And that's when the questions began.

Could I have finished? Did I stop too soon? Was I physically spent, or did I simply lose my resolve? As endurance athletes, we're taught to question ourselves. To push through discomfort. To ignore the voice that tells us to stop because it's often wrong.

But what happens when it isn't?

I keep coming back to the moment the wind stopped. Looking back, I almost feel like that's where the swim ended. Not because I got out of the water then. But because once the conditions settled, I could finally hear what my body had been trying to tell me all afternoon.

I still find myself searching for reassurance. It's hard to watch the last videos of me swimming. My stroke looks strong. My crew keeps telling me I looked great. Logically, I understand why they thought I could finish. But they couldn't feel what I felt. That's the hardest part to explain. 

I was prepared for this swim. I have swum longer. I had completed two separate rounds of twenty-four-hour exhaustion training. Even after all the love, support, and reassurance I've received, there are still moments when I wonder if I failed.

And maybe that's the hardest part of all.

Beach day with Angela and Kelley post-swim as the doubt began to creep in.

Tahoe and I aren’t finished. 

I don’t believe Tahoe defeated me. It simply won this round. 

As hard as this swim was, I truly believe it was one of the best performances of my swimming career. That may sound strange coming from someone who didn't finish, but I know what I felt. My form never fell apart. My mind never gave up. I stayed present, focused, and determined until my very last stroke. I wasn't fighting fear or doubt. I was listening to my body.

From the outside, I understand why my crew believed I could keep going. Looking back at the videos, I think the same thing. I look strong. I look smooth. I look like I have plenty left. But those videos can't show the pain. They can't show how every breath hurt or how heavy every stroke had become. Only I knew what it felt like inside my own body, and that's why only I could make the decision to stop.

I'm incredibly proud of the way I swam that day. It was the hardest thing I have ever attempted, and if just one or two pieces of the puzzle had been different, maybe the outcome would have been too. Maybe it was the altitude. Maybe it was the antibiotics I was on the week before. Maybe it was simply one of those days. I'll never know.

What I do know is this. I didn't finish the swim I came to do, but I left Tahoe a better swimmer than the one who entered it. Not because of the miles I covered, but because I learned something I hope I never forget. Twenty-six hours into the hardest effort of my life, I was still able to make my own decisions. I wasn't making them out of fear. I was making them out of experience.

That realization gives me more confidence than finishing this swim ever could. Tahoe humbled me. It didn't defeat me. 

Tahoe and I have unfinished business.