I learned to float one summer in Buffalo when I was six. In a relative’s pool at a cookout, a great uncle promised me that he would not allow me to sink. He placed his hand on the small of my back and taught me to relax my muscles while also slightly arching my back and pushing my tummy toward the sky. Before I knew it, I was floating mostly on my own but with the knowledge that he would not let me go under.

In the years that followed, out of necessity and as a source of pride, I learned not only to float, but to swim on my own in pools, lakes and oceans. I could go long distances, hold my breath to dive deep and push through when I felt fatigue and pain. After experiencing the terror of being forced onto the ocean bottom and held under by a set of waves on more than one occasion, though I might temporarily be a bit more cautious, I would always return to swim in the churning sea. Going under was no longer a fear because I knew I could pull myself up again.

Today, I find myself with the strength of a swimmer that comes with years of practice and experience, but also with a weariness. Just because I can dive into those rough waters and come out the other side doesn’t mean I want to continue to struggle. I have a renewed desire to just float alongside someone who will place their hand under my back and say, “I know you can do this all by yourself, but allow me to be with you so that you can completely let go and surrender to the embrace of the float.”