I once loved swimming. Now though, whenever I go for a dip our local pool, especially with my son, it fills me with dread.

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Not that my gorgeous son causes me to feel down. He is just a toddler and loves to splash and play in the water. I am jealous of his sense of play. For me, wading into the pool, even with him by my side, and other kids and their mums and dads, leaves me feeling like I don't belong. Even haunted. As if I am a ghost floating between the swimmers and world of the dead.

Of course, the pool has always felt weird and difficult for me since my wife passed. She was a keen and talented swimmer. She also suffered from vaccine-induced long COVID and found relief from its severe pain in the water. My son and I loved to spend time with her in the pool as a family. One of her favourite things was to zoom him up and down through the water, its buoyancy giving her strength, and he loved to be in her arms, squealing with delight. Watching her swim with him, even when she was so sick, were some of the most precious moments of my life.

These days, without her, we attend a swimming program for children twice a week at nights in a primary school. The vibes, for me at least, are very strange, and most visits are the same. I help him into the water, and he slips willingly into its warmth, but it brings me little comfort. He giggles, and I try to smile at him, the effort in faking it making me feel worse. At the other end of the pool, parents with babies at the other end of the pool sing and clap with the trainers. They all seem so happy, so confident, not drained by loss like me.

I notice that sharp smell of chlorine, too. The smell brings with it powerful memories: me, as a kid, and jumping with glee into the deep end. Then, me carrying my wife from the pool after swimming with our son, her eyes closed from exhaustion. As my past merges with the present, it feels uncanny, an experience both sickening, and yet bursting with life.

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My grief associated with swimming is my own. But anxieties with getting in the water are more common than you'd think. Other parents have shared with me concerns about taking their children to swimming classes. Some children struggle to stay afloat. Others find it scary to put their head underwater or feel overwhelmed by the noise. Some nights at the pool, watching my son and other children struggle from time to time, I see what they mean.

Research shows even more difficulties with swimming. In 2025, Royal Life Saving Australia found, based on estimates by parents, that 46 per cent of 11-12-year-olds are unable to swim 50 metres and tread water for two minutes. The research followed evidence of an increase in people who lost their lives to drowning during the 2024-2025 summer when compared with the previous year, and the five-year average.

Evidence also suggests that many factors contribute to the decline in swimming. Interruptions due to the COVID-19 pandemic, a lack of swimming instructors, pool entry fees and swimming school fees have all become issues. Finding a pool close to home can be hard, especially as many pools fall into disrepair, or simply don't exist in some communities. Beaches are lovely, but with their strong currents, big waves, rips and other dangers, they don't make swimming easy. Clearly, there is a critical need to help prevent further harm by addressing the barriers that prevent learning to swim, or its simple enjoyment.

My son and I are fortunate. Our swimming program is close to where we live, and affordable. I can see how this access helps to make his learning much easier. Driving to the pool is quick so we can fit classes in after a day at pre-school. The instructors are kind, practical and knowledgeable, allowing him to practice and build his confidence at his own pace. And the pool itself is an appropriate size and depth. At such a young age, he has a good foundation to grow his skill in staying afloat and having fun in the water. I am grateful to be part of his swimming journey. And for those lovely times in the water with my wife, even when she was so sick.

But seeing my son grow in the pool without my wife remains hard, and bittersweet. He has learned to paddle well since her death. When he swims over to an instructor, she welcomes him with open arms, before swinging him around in slow circles and he cries out for more. Often, when he does this, and I see him in the arms of someone else, I cry. Later, he jumps off the pool's edge into the water with glee. Kicks while on his back, and looks up at me watching from the side, eyes sparkling, face triumphant. It is not until then, and I see him so happy, becoming a keen swimmer despite such loss in his life, that my tears stop. In these moments, I feel less like a ghost. I feel more human, more part of this world of the living, like the mums and dad sitting on the seats nearby. And that he is okay. That we will be okay.

At home, once my son is out of his bathers, dry, and dinner is finished, we fall asleep in our beds, exhausted. Sleep comes quick on the days that feel so long and strange as we learn to be a family again. I like to think we rest easier because our time in the pool, and anytime, or anywhere, that the pain of loss arrives, are not without beauty, and joy. Together, in the water, we are learning to find solace. We are learning to endure.

Ben O'Mara is a writer and researcher from Canberra.

This story was inspired by, and updates information in, his previous essay in the book Long COVID and Society (2025), published by Springer Nature.

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