The excitement in my body was so intense, I could practically feel it pulsing through my veins. I jumped up and down in my spot as the other kindergarteners and I waited to be guided to the pool area. My mind was more distracted than usual because I had not been to the YMCA in weeks, and so naturally, I did not care about the daily process that all of us inexperienced swimmers went through in order to meet safety requirements. As I breezed by the rest of the group, whose members were carefully securing floaties on their arms, I felt the energy boiling up. In that moment, I did not bother myself with the swimming instructor’s warnings. After reaching the diving spot, I lept into the pool, and the new jolt of adrenaline allowed my body to ignore the sudden drop in temperature as I hit the surface.

Instantaneously, I became overwhelmed with fear: my feet were not touching the pool floor, and I could not propel my body upwards high enough so that my head was above the water. My heart was pounding in my chest as I kicked with all my might to barely reach the surface as the water violently rocked around my flailing arms. I gasped as I swallowed the strongly chlorinated water, choking in my desperate attempt to scream for help. My legs burned as if they were set on fire, and I saw no one in my blurred sight; I was convinced my slow death in the pool would stay unnoticed. After what seemed an eternity of suffering, my body went into shock. I could no longer feel my legs or arms, only a sharp pain in my chest that jabbed into me with every kick. Just as my body reached its limit, my mental strength surrendered as well; I accepted the fact that I was going to die. I kicked my legs for the last time as I felt my body slowly drift downward; soon I was consumed in an unconscious darkness.

Minutes later, I awoke on a cold tile floor next to the pool with a concerned audience gawking at me as if I was a horror show, which included my shaky swim instructor and a soaking-wet lifeguard. “She needs to go to the hospital,” the instructor’s voice trembled as I violently coughed up water and mucus.

“No,” the lifeguard stated, “she’ll be okay… just inhaled too much water, that’s all. We gotta call her mother though…” Their voices trailed off as I heard my head pounding in my ears. Then, I was picked up, wrapped in a towel, and handed over to a man who held me until my mother came to bring me home. Lying in my concerned mother’s arms is the last memory I have of that life-changing day.

In the years since my close-call with death, I have learned to balance individualism and obedience. I am not one to blindly follow anyone’s instructions, no matter his or her position. Now as a mature high school junior I no longer jump into water I cannot handle, but I do continually challenge the methods and specific standards practiced in my job at McDonald’s. Sometimes I am scolded for “not following directions,” even though I am simply trying to improve procedures with new ideas. Although I respect my boss, my meticulous and perfectionist personality works hand and hand with my stubbornness and willpower to succeed in the most effective way. Yet, I have gradually become more accepting of others’ warnings and advice. Even though I will never be a submissive follower, often listening to authority and experts is the smartest option for safety and enlightenment. Now, I can enjoy the mountainous waves at the beach without disregarding the lifeguard’s warnings to not venture out too far.