⏱ ~4 min reading
Marinka had a great fear. Not the fear of the dark, not the fear of spiders — but the fear of water. Not puddles, not the bathtub at home — that didn't scare her. What scared her was real deep water: blue, transparent, with no bottom visible.
Every Tuesday, her mother would take Marinka to the pool. The girl would hold her mother's hand while she changed clothes, while she walked across the slippery tiled floor. All the sounds here were special — booming, ringing, echoing. Someone was splashing somewhere, a coach's whistle somewhere, laughter somewhere.
Marinka stood on the edge and looked down. The water looked calm, but inside Marinka everything was tightening.
"Don't be afraid," the coach said gently. He was a tall man with kind eyes and a short-cropped beard. All the children called him Uncle Igor.
"I can't," Marinka replied in a whisper. "I'm drowning.".
"And you haven't tried it yet. How do you know?"
Marinka didn't know what to say.
For several sessions, Marinka simply sat on the edge. She would dip her feet into the water and then immediately pull them back out. The water tickled, but it seemed cold and alien.
The coach didn't scold her. He would come over, sit next to her, and just talk to her. About school. About her mom's pancakes. About her cat who could open doors with his paw.
Once, in the fifth or sixth lesson, the coach said something strange:
— You know, Marinka, I have a secret. Do you want to hear it?
Marinka nodded.
— When you enter the water, don't try to swim. First, just be in the water who you want to be. Imagine that you are a swan. Small, white, with a proud neck. Swans don't swim—they just live on the water. Water is to them like land is to us.
Marinka thought. A swan? She was never a swan.
— How is that?
— Close your eyes. Imagine your feathers - soft, white, like snow. Imagine your long neck - flexible, smooth, like a wave. Imagine that your arms are wings. And when you are ready - just enter the water like a swan into a lake. Calmly. Without rushing.
Marinka stood for a long time with her eyes closed. She imagined. Her feathers. Her neck like a little ship. Wings folding along her body. She breathed slowly - one, two, three.
When she finally opened her eyes, she was in the water. She didn't remember how she got in. She just went in. Her body relaxed. The water held her like the palm of her hand.
Marinka herself didn't notice how her hands began to make smooth strokes - like wings. How her legs began to push quietly. And she was moving - swimming!
"I'm swimming!" shouted Marinka. Her voice rang throughout the pool. "Coach, I'm swimming!"
All the kids looked around. The coach smiled and clapped his hands.
But then — suddenly — Marinka realized: she was in the middle of the pool. Not near the edge. Samisinka. Deep water beneath her. Her eyes widened. Her heart sank.
“I… I can’t!” she screamed and went under the water.
She choked. The water filled her nose and eyes. Marinka's legs trembled.
The coach was there in a second. He picked her up—carefully but firmly—and pulled her out of the water. He laid her on the side, wrapped her in a warm towel.
Marinka was crying. Not from the water. From fear.
The coach sat down next to her and didn't say anything for a long time. He just held her little hand.
"Do you know what happened?" he finally asked. "You were scared. Not of the water. Of yourself. You believed that you suddenly couldn't swim. But in reality, you were just swimming. You're a swan, Marinka. I saw it.".
Marinka wiped her tears with the palm of her hand. She was silent for a long time. Then she said:
— I want to try again.
— Well done.
Marinka stood up. She threw off her towel. She walked to the edge of the water. And before she went in, she closed her eyes. She imagined feathers. A neck. Wings.
“I am a swan,” she whispered.
And she went into the water. This time she didn't look down. She looked ahead—to the other side of the pool. And she swam. Slowly, steadily, calmly. To the edge. Then she stopped. Then she swam back.
A year later, Marinka won a medal at a children's tournament.
As the coach presented her with the shiny gold ribbon, he said quietly:
— Do you know, Marinka, what you do best?
— What?
"You first became a swan. And then you learned to swim. That's why you can do it.".
Marinka smiled and pressed the medal to her chest. She understood: there are things for which you must first believe in yourself. And only then act. Because faith is the very first feather. Everything else is added by itself.
✨ Self-belief is the very first feather. Everything else will follow ✨