The Pink Whistle by Genevieve

The Pink Whistle by Genevieve - January 2026 Scholarship Essay

Clutching my sparkly pink whistle, I watched as my swimmer pounded the timing pad wearing my goggles.

Since I was five, my days were dominated by the mind-numbing motion of swimming laps, back and forth, for six days a week. So, I would fix my eyes on the unchanging black line at the bottom of the pool to appease my parents and coaches. My ears were constantly ringing with the harsh criticism shouted from across the deck. But at least I was good.

7 years of ribbons and trophies lined my shelves.

I was in first at the 50 going into the flipturn, and I knew it. As I pushed off the wall, I watched in despair as I slowly fell behind over the course of the second 50. I felt my airways tightening as I listened to my heaving, raspy breaths. By the time I pounded the timing pad, I was in last place.

Blurry multicolored lights danced around my head as I sank to my knees and tried to catch my breath.

I felt nauseous, nervously tapping my foot in the doctor's office. After multiple tests, they didn’t have any diagnoses, only recommendations for more testing or to quit swimming. I watched 3,942 hours of my life and my identity of being a good swimmer surge down the drain. Over the testing, I switched to a less competitive team, hoping to reclaim all the wasted hours.

But, I learned I could be an assistant coach. I walked into a new pool and clung to my brand-new sparkling pink whistle. For the first time, I wouldn't have to stare at the black line. This time, I was the coach.

My first memories of swimming were looking forward to the raspberry lemonade or baked goods celebrating the new milestone I reached that day. Coach Susan was my first swim coach and helped me fall in love with swimming, always treating me with kindness, despite mistakes or slip-ups. I was excited to learn. Years later, I wished I hadn’t reached those milestones, moving onto more competitive teams- the sweet raspberry lemonade had turned into sour scolds.

Now I was coaching 5 to 9-year-olds who had never swam before. Seeing the kids pushed onto deck by their parents, much to their hesitation- I thought- could I help my swimmers love the sport like I once did?

When I got home, I frantically ran around my house finding every small trinket and toy, filling a treasure box with bouncy balls, stickers, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. I wanted to make practice fun. I saw a younger version of myself in them and watched as their eyes lit up seeing the treasure box. I saw their perception of swimming evolve.

One of my swimmers made finals, but before this summer, she had never swum competitively before. The glowing third-place medal that hung around her neck made me feel proud of the pink whistle that hung around mine. Coaching helped me renew my love for the sport, as I gained a community and another family. After ten years into the sport, I finally found my place.

Three years later, after moving across the country, I went back to visit. Met with a giant hug, Gracie’s mom explained: “Don’t worry, she’s still swimming, but we miss you, and the treasure box.” The flight home I had a smile from ear to ear- knowing I succeeded.

I did it. I was able to be the coach that I wished I had. I made swimming fun, not just for the kids I coached, but for myself. I found meaning in the lost practice hours and former identity through coaching.

From my medical condition stripping away my competitiveness, I had to hang up my googles, but in return I had become a coach. Learning that sports aren’t only about competition, I found cookies work better than shouting.