I was OK at swimming. Just decent — nothing that pointed me out in a pool full of people and put a glaring label on my head that shouted “Look! It’s a future Olympian!”

But I loved every moment of it, even through the last few months.

The routine splash of my fingers, every gasping breath  reminding me of how far I had swum, and how far I had left to swim. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Every groan and creak in my bones and muscles after a grueling practice filled with intervals I had missed, and the terrible aching I felt when I realized, yes, I was exhausted but I could have tried harder.

The meets used to be my favorite part of the sport.

The 15 minutes before swimmers started shedding their bulky parkas and donning caps, goggles and suits to brave the cold waters of the warm-up pool were the best. The air was still and quiet, no sounds but the gentle splashing of the undisturbed water and murmuring of still-sleepy coaches.

I loved the chaos of the warm-up pool when it was crammed with 12 people in a lane, all gearing up for their races while fighting for a spot in the water.

I loved the chaos of the locker room when swimmers, all struggling to put on their skintight tech suits, raced to find any space to stand, leaving a puddle of chlorine-water and dirt behind when they left.

I always enjoyed relays more than individual races. The feeling of camaraderie when we all stood behind the blocks, eyes full of anticipation and knowing that we could depend on the person next to us, was enough fuel for me to crush my leg of the relay; it was in those moments that I knew I wasn’t swimming for me — I was swimming for the other three people in my relay team even if they couldn’t care less about the outcome of the race.

One reason I kept going was for the people in my team. Swimming is an individual sport, but each race is a team effort. Your friends push you to finish every practice, and they challenge you to improve yourself in every race. Teammates become some of your best friends and people in your life.

At the beginning of my freshman year in high school, my team and I went on a travel trip to Redding. We ate every meal together, roomed together, and swam together — did everything as a team. Looking back on it, I realize now that I’ve never felt so close to a group of people other than my family before that.

I remember our last night at the meet — it was pouring buckets and all we had to keep ourselves dry were our bags and furry parkas. Our coaches handed out our dinner, soggy In-n-Out, in the pelting rain.

While gulping down my fries, I looked around at my friends and strangely, I felt at home. Despite the fact that I was a 5-hour drive away from my family, despite the fact that I was drenched to the bone, and despite the fact that I had barely anything in common with the people huddled around me other than how we were on the same swim team.

I suppose that became my sole purpose for swimming — I raced for other people, not for myself. But that’s when I started feeling it.

When I climbed on the blocks, something kept gnawing away at my focus and motivation. Every single race where I couldn’t reach my goal time or added a few seconds was torturous.

It was an endless spiral down, a one way ticket to the end of my swimming life. It became harder and harder to pull up the last dregs of my motivation to persevere through the grueling practices and meets where I swam discouraging times. But I still hung on to swimming — because of my teammates, and also because I convinced myself that to quit now would be wasting the years and years I had devoted to worshipping the pool and the challenges it held. But in the end, the early practices and demanding hours every day were too much for me to continue.

It wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it sounds. I was in bed on a regular school night, ready to fall asleep at any second. It popped into my thoughts, a single epiphany that my subconscious held on to.

“I’m tired. I’m tired of swimming, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

And that was it. Deciding to stop swimming quietly crushed something inside of me that had been there since I was 3, when I first touched the over-chlorinated pool water of the Tualatin Hills Recreation Center in Oregon.

I play water polo now, and I’m just decent at it. I’m not sure if I’ll swim high-school seasons, but I know that I’ve reached the end of my line as a club swimmer.

Sometimes I’m glad I quit. Sometimes I miss it.