If you have ever lost something that once defined you (a sport, a passion, or even a part of yourself), you know the ache of wondering if you will ever find your way back to it. Many of us reach a point where we want to reconnect with the parts of ourselves that were left behind. My path led me back to the water.

Before my amputation, swimming was a massive part of who I was. Those moments spent racing made me feel alive, strong, and whole. In 2017, I lost my ability to compete due to chronic illness, followed by an emergency above-the-knee amputation in 2021 due to sepsis.

For a long time, I believed I had lost the athlete inside me.

Growing up, swimming was a source of freedom. It was my safe place. However, during my senior year of high school, I was diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a disorder that made my joints fragile and my body a constant source of pain. Throughout the years that followed, I went through many intense surgeries, including having my skull fused to my spine. All of the energy I once used to race was now being used for survival. After battling sepsis and complications, my leg was amputated on August 25, 2021; that day, my life was divided into before and after.

For almost ten years, I stayed out of the pool. While my childhood teammates were chasing records and pursuing collegiate dreams, I was learning how to sit upright without fainting, how to take steps without help, and how to live in a body that no longer felt like my own. Still, the water kept calling me back. This past January, after what felt like a millennia (surgeries, hospital visits, and medical clearances), I finally heard the words I had been waiting to hear: I could swim again.

When I stepped onto the pool deck for the first time in ten years, I was scared. Not of the water, but of facing how far I had fallen from the swimmer I once was. I was no longer the confident and fast athlete I used to be. Around the same time, I was moving into a new apartment. While unpacking, I came across a quote I had written on the back of one of my old swimming photos in 2012:

"Somewhere, behind the athlete you have become, the practices, the coaches that pushed you, the meets you have competed in, the longtime dedication, and the friendships you have made along the way, there is a little girl who fell in love with the water. Swim for her."

When I saw that quote, I was reminded that the little girl is still inside me. She swims for joy, for independence, for that weightless feeling when everything else feels too heavy. So I'll keep swimming. For her.

During the months that followed my amputation, I spoke with Brenna Huckaby, a Paralympic gold medalist snowboarder. She was a gymnast on track to compete in college before losing her leg to cancer in 2010. I asked her how she found her way back to sports, and she gave me advice I'll never forget:

"Find a sport that gives you the same rush that swimming once did."

For her, that sport was snowboarding. Brenna's words resonated deeply with me. After that conversation, I stopped chasing who I used to be and started exploring who I could become. I set a goal to find a sport that could give me the same feeling that swimming once did. I didn't know what that would be, but I kept an open mind. That's when an unexpected opportunity presented itself: a raffle from Click Medical (the company behind my prosthetic's adjustable socket) for a spot in a gravel cycling race in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. I hadn't ridden a bike since I was twelve, and I was still adjusting to walking on a prosthesis. But in the spirit of trying something new, I signed up... and I won. I called my parents. They were surprised but proud. I had never been a cyclist, but now I had a new goal: to push myself beyond what I thought was possible.

I trained. I adapted. I learned.

Just before the first anniversary of my amputation, I completed the 37-mile race alongside 30 para-athletes. It was both overwhelming and humbling. We were proof that athletes with disabilities can do incredible things. That resilience meant more to me than any finish line ever

could. It showed me that I still belong in the athletic space, even if my path looks different now.

I never viewed myself as a cyclist, but I was proud of myself for trying something new. I thoroughly enjoyed gravel cycling, but it didn't give me the same sense of satisfaction as swimming did. Through that experience, I came to understand that what my heart longed for

most wasn’t something new; it was the water that once made me feel whole.

At my first para-swimming meet in Cincinnati, Ohio, I expected to feel nervous and excited. What I didn't anticipate was to break down crying on the pool deck. I was overwhelmed with emotions (grief, gratitude, fear, hope, all of it). Through my tears, I saw my mom walking toward me. She hugged me and reminded me I wasn't alone. That moment was raw, but it was one I needed.

Since then, I haven't just kept competing, I've been thriving. At the Cincinnati meet, I earned two golds, one silver, one bronze, and a fourth-place finish. Most recently, at a para meet held at the U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Training Center, I had a clean sweep, winning every event I swam in my classification. Each race has reminded me that my hard work is paying off and that I belong on that starting block.

Currently, I train with a U.S. Masters Swim Team as their only para-athlete. I modify drills, swim differently, and sometimes get stares and questions. But I also find laughter, support, and a deep sense of belonging. The early mornings and fist bumps after complex sets remind me that I'm part of a team, even if my goals look different.

Right now, I'm training with my sights set on the U.S. Paralympic National Team and the 2028 LA Games. Every practice brings me one step closer. Every stroke reinforces that I'm moving forward. The road ahead is long, but I'm no longer afraid. I've survived more than most people my age. I know how to fight. I know how to fall and rise again - scarred, but unstoppable.

For me, success isn't solely about medals or records, although those are nice. It's getting out of bed when my body hurts. It's finishing sets I didn't think I could. To me, victory is standing on the starting block with one leg and refusing to quit.

In a world that too often sees disability as a setback, para-athletes are rewriting that outdated narrative. They redefine strength and prove that being different is not a weakness. If you're reading this and wondering if you'll ever get back to what you love, whether it's swimming, running, dancing, or simply walking without pain, please hear this:

You are not broken. You are not less. You are not finished.

It won't be easy. You will cry. You will want to give up. You will feel lost in your own body.

But you will rise. You will rebuild. You will find strength you didn't know you had. You will surprise yourself. You will find joy again.

If you were once an athlete, you still are. The fire that once drove you is still there, even if it burns differently now. It might flicker. It might change shape. But it never truly dies. My journey brought me from hospital beds back to the starting block. Your story will unfold in its own way, and that's where your strength will come from.

Coming back to sport after nearly a decade of pain, surgeries, and losing my leg has been one of the hardest things I've done - but also the most rewarding. With every setback, I peel away the pain and fear, only to find that the strongest parts of me have been there all along. I didn't lose my identity. I just had to fight harder to reclaim it. Now, whether I'm swimming, cycling, or chasing new dreams, I know this:

"Once an athlete, always an athlete."