Today is my son's 17th birthday. I’m watching him swim deliberately, doggedly. He, as always, is swimming his heart out. We are at a swim meet in Greensboro, North Carolina. Greensboro Aquatic Center. Lane 3. The same pool he’s raced in countless times. The same town my mom once called home—briefly and begrudgingly—when she attended what was then the Woman’s College of UNC.
She was a Wilmington girl. A coastal soul just like me who missed the ocean every day she spent inland. Greensboro never really clicked for her, and I have to admit, I’ve inherited that discomfort. I used to think I hated this place. I still don’t love it. But it's complicated—because every time I come here, I remember things. I learn things.
My mom used to talk about how proud she was to go to the Woman’s College—at the time ranked just behind Vassar. She loved what it stood for: women pushing forward, making space for each other. But she was also fuming when the college went coed (years after she graduated). She was actually mad that they let men in—said it ruined the rankings. Probably true. That comment still makes me smile. My mother was many things—kind, resilient, loyal and loving beyond measure of her sons—and always honest, empathetic and optimistic. Qualities I have inherited and I hope that my son does too.
Now, decades later, I find myself back in this town more often than I ever imagined, sitting in bleachers at the Greensboro Aquatic Center, watching my son glide through the water. He’s a swimmer. A good one. And I’m so proud of him.
But this place holds shadows for me, too. There are memories tied to bad faith and bad people, memories I’d rather not revisit. The kind that come creeping in when you're trying to celebrate something pure—like your son’s birthday.
Still, somehow, when the heaviness creeps in, my mom shows up. Not literally, of course. But in spirit. Resilient. Loving. Maybe even amused. I think she keeps bringing me back here—to this strange in-between place—to remind me of something. That I can do hard things. That I can hold love and pain at the same time. That showing up for your child, again and again, is its own kind of healing.
She’s still teaching me. Even now.
And I know—know—she would have loved watching him swim. Just like I do. I can almost hear her cheering, sharp and proud. I think my grandparents, both strong athletes and even stronger minds, would’ve been proud too. They’d probably tell us both to get back to the coast, to saltwater and sea air, to where we belong.
But for now, we’re here. Lane 3. My son gliding through water like it’s home. And me—sitting, watching, remembering. Trying to soak up every moment.
Because resilience isn’t just about surviving. Sometimes, it’s about staying. Watching. Cheering. And showing up, even in places that feel heavy.
Happy birthday, Denali. You keep me moving forward.
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