Diving in the Deep End

(I think he shows a healthy amount of trepidation, don't you?)

My youngest son, Evan, started high school this week.  He wasn't looking forward to it.  I understood his apprehension as there's much to be anxious about.  He's coming from a school with 200 kids and going to one that has over 2000.  He'll be changing classes, obeying bells, and dealing with lockers for the first time ever.  Plus, the school is huge.  Schools this size eat smaller ones like his old school for lunch.  Speaking of lunch, he didn't even know how to use a cafeteria as he's never had to navigate one before.

I did my best to prepare him in whatever ways I could.  We studied a map of the school and plotted out routes to his locker and all of his classes.  I showed him where the bus would be parked so he could find it at the end of the day.  I reminded him to ask a teacher if he gets lost or needs help.  I assured him that everyone feels nervous when they start high school but it will get better after a few weeks. 

I don't think he quite believed me. 

During the summer, I enrolled Evan in swimming lessons. He'd never learned to swim, and since he'd need to know how for gym class, lessons seemed like a good idea.

  

Over the span of a week, his instructor guided him through a predictable sequence: first, kicking with a board, then swimming freestyle, then the backstroke, and then the breast stroke.  The final lesson would be diving.

Evan did not want to dive.  Every day, he worried about it and every night, he lost sleep over it.  I told him he'd easily bob back up to the surface and that it's incredibly difficult to sink all the way to the bottom.  We watched small kids diving in the twelve-foot end of the pool with ease.  None of this calmed his fear.  Each day, his instructor would ask, "Are you ready to try diving today?"  Each day, his response would be no.

Finally, at the last class, he couldn't avoid it any longer.  His instructor knew he was nervous, so she had him progress to the diving board in steps:  first, jump off the side of the pool straight into the water; next, squat and arc a bit into the water; finally, stand and arc into the water.  Evan performed all of these tasks, surprising himself with each success.

The only thing left to conquer was the diving board.  I knew that the diving board was a symbol of dozens of other little fears that Evan had allowed to consume him.  If he succeeded with this one thing in spite of his fear, it would give him the confidence to push through all kinds of other challenges in his life.

 

Evan's anxiety was visible as he reluctantly approached the diving board.  He paced in circles at the base of it, unable to move onto the actual board.  His instructor assured him he could do it.  His father and I assured him he could do it.  His instructor even agreed to walk out on the diving board next to him.  Evan wasn't having any of it.  He was frozen with fear.

As someone who understands anxiety well, I thought of things that help me move through fear.  In my experience, the quickest way out of fear purgatory is to get angry about being there in the first place.

"Evan, you've got to get angry at your fear," I shouted.  "It's keeping you a prisoner.  You've got to get mad and just do it!  Don't let your fear have control over you any longer.  Do it and get it over with!"

I'm sure this advice made him more angry at me than the diving board, but at least it convinced him to move.  As his instructor encouraged him, Evan inched out to the end of the board.  His dad and I cheered him on until finally - miraculously - probably just to shut us up - he dove in the water.  He bobbed back up to the surface with a huge grin on his face, jubilant over his success.  He took a dive in the deep end and he survived.

 

No doubt Evan's triumph over the diving board was on his mind as he started his first day of high school. 

When he arrived home, I asked him how school was and if he was able to find all of his classes.

"I nailed it," he said.  "It was much easier than diving in the deep end at the pool."

I don't think I have anything to worry about.  This kid's going to be just fine.