I Tried to Learn to Swim at 25—But The Ancestors Weren't Having It

Not exactly a shock

Apr 14, 2025

Hey y’all,

If you were single and hadn’t been on a date in two years, how much would you spend to ensure you meet your person? Maybe $100? $20 every month until you met them? More or less?

The social media streets are in an uproar because of a woman who shared her 20+ part story on TikTok about how she paid $10,000 U.S. dollhairs for a dating coach. After working together, the woman landed a whole fiancé and is currently planning her wedding 💅🏾 Does it sound worth it now?

I’ve been discussing the ethics behind packaging widely available knowledge and selling it as an ‘expert’ or ‘guru’ with friends. The woman’s dating coach is Anwar White, a popular online dating commentator who focuses on “high-value women.” He regularly posts dating advice (although a bit unconventional) and a lot of the info is pretty standard: don’t take disrespect, be upfront about what you want, etc. The way he delivers it is no-nonsense and hilarious.

But as people online debated if her investment was worth it (Anwar told her to get on dating apps, and she ended up meeting her fiancé on Hinge), I came to the realization that most people don’t want to do research. They’d rather pay someone to hear the neatly packaged version of easily attainable and widely available knowledge than watch maybe one or two 20-minute YouTube videos on the do’s and don’ts of something like dating.

People like Anwar make a living because people love a packaged take that someone else put together. They would also rather have someone tell them exactly what to do and call them on their shit than take their own colorful journey to figure it out. Instead of reading the article from The Atlantic, why not just watch a 20-sec video of a creator talking about the article from The Atlantic…right? I’m not mad at the hustle, he’s clearly getting his coins, and she got the outcome she wanted. But in an age where personal discovery is less important than efficiency, more of these ‘gurus’ will be popping up like fleas to feast.

This Week’s Story

I don’t remember when I learned to swim, but I do know that when my parents immigrated to this country, they had me doing fifty-eleven activities to make sure I didn’t miss out on my promised Nigerian-to-American childhood transition. Next thing I knew, I was 2-years-old hitting the butterfly stroke. This week’s author, Melody Gandy-Bohr, shares a hilarious story on how she attempted to break generational curses by learning to swim at 25, and it…didn’t go so well. Hope you enjoy this one as much as I did!

Take care,

Anayo Awuzie
EIC of Carefree Mag

P.S.—Shoutout to

, and

for writing with me yesterday!

I Tried to Learn to Swim at 25—But Generations of Black Non-Swimmers Were Working Against Me

By Melody Gandy-Bohr

Him: "Ok, should I book the catamaran cruise, or do you want to snorkel at the resort?"

Me: "Um, neither?"

Him: "What?"

Me: "Babe, you know I don't know how to swim."

Him, staring in disbelief: "So you're not getting in the water at all?"

Me: "Um... does wading count?"

Some people learn to swim as kids. People have bragged about being thrown into the water at five and feeling their natural instincts kick in. Well, I was thrown into a pool when I was eight. My uncle, in his infinite wisdom, thought the best way to teach me was full immersion, literally. So, he tossed me into the deep end at a family barbecue, assuming nature would do the rest.

Apparently, nature was taking a vacation day.

I thrashed. I panicked. I swallowed what felt like half the pool. And instead of instinctively figuring it out, I crawled—yes, crawled—along the pool floor until I reached a level where I could stand. I was probably underwater for less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. Since then, I have been absolutely terrified of water. I didn’t get back into a pool for nearly ten years, and even then, I never ventured beyond the shallow end.

Friends and family tried to teach me over the years, bless them, but my body would tense up the moment I so much as dipped my face in. It wasn’t just fear—it was a full-body shutdown. So I did what generations before me had done: I stayed dry.

As a Black woman, my lack of swimming skills wasn’t exactly a shock. Generations of systemic barriers and cultural disconnection from swimming meant that learning late in life wasn’t just difficult—it felt like I was breaking a family tradition of not getting in the water. My mother, my grandmother, and my aunts—they all had the same approach to large bodies of water: admire from a safe distance, maybe dip a toe in, but never, under any circumstances, attempt full immersion. Growing up, I never questioned this. It was just how things were.

But then came my honeymoon. The promise of crystal-clear waters, picturesque beaches, and excursions that required waivers acknowledging my ‘potential liability.’ I decided it was time. It was now or never. I would break the cycle.

Is There a Pre-Beginner Option?

With all the confidence of someone who had never so much as dog-paddled, I signed up for an adult swim class at my local YMCA. In my mind, I was taking the first step toward aquatic greatness. Michael Phelps, but make it beginner-friendly.

Reality hit the moment I entered the water. While my classmates calmly followed the instructor’s lead—floating, kicking, and blowing bubbles like it was the easiest thing in the world—I was engaged in a full-on battle with the pool itself. Every movement felt unnatural. The concept of ‘relaxing’ in the water? A personal attack. When the instructor said, "Just let yourself float," my body responded with a resounding nope and immediately began sinking.

Halfway through the first class, the instructor discreetly pulled me aside. She smiled in a way that suggested she didn’t have time for my shit today. “I think private lessons might be a better fit for you,” she said gently.

I nodded, pretending to agree, but internally, I was spiraling. Was I really such a lost cause that even the group setting—designed for beginners—was too advanced for me? I explored the next logical step: a swim class for people who had actively offended the concept of swimming.

Private Lessons: Where Dignity Goes to Die

Determined not to give up, I signed up for private lessons. If I was going to fail, at least I could do it without an audience. My instructor, a patient saint of a woman, tried her best. She walked me through each movement as if coaching a newborn deer attempting to stand for the first time.

But my body and brain refused to cooperate. Every instinct screamed, “GET OUT OF THE WATER.” My ancestors, who had spent generations avoiding large bodies of water for very real and historical reasons, were shaking their heads at me.

By lesson three, my instructor started introducing motivational tactics. “Think of something relaxing,” she suggested. “Something that makes you happy.”

“Like dry land?” I offered.

She sighed.

It was around this time that I started researching why swimming felt like an actual war against nature. Turns out, I wasn’t imagining things—there are documented disparities in swimming abilities across racial lines. According to research by the CDC, nearly 37% of Black adults report not knowing how to swim compared to just 15% of all adults. Decades of exclusion from public pools and segregation led to generations of Black families simply not learning to swim. And fear, once ingrained, has a way of being passed down like an heirloom.

Even Black athletes who had conquered other sports spoke about the challenges of learning to swim later in life. Serena Williams once admitted to taking swimming lessons as an adult and struggling. If Serena Williams, the GOAT, struggled, what hope did I have?

Acceptance (and a Great Swimsuit)

By the end of my lessons, had I mastered swimming? Absolutely not. My instructor had managed to coax me into a very slow, very controlled float, but the idea of actual strokes remained laughable.

What I had learned, however, was that undoing generational fears takes more than a few classes. It takes patience, persistence, and maybe a deep-seated desire to fully enjoy a romantic honeymoon in Hawaii. While I may not have conquered swimming, I did find ways to enjoy the water. I mastered the art of looking cute in a poolside lounge chair, perfected my ‘standing in the shallow end’ technique, and discovered that a sexy swimsuit and a tropical cocktail can make you feel like you belong in the water, even if you have no business being in it.

And so, on my honeymoon, when my new husband suggested snorkeling, I nodded. When he asked if I was sure, I said, “Of course.” And when we actually got in the water, I grabbed onto a flotation device for dear life and enjoyed the view from the safety of the surface. Because some traditions, it turns out, are hard to break.