This has been going on for a while. The anxiety. The tears. The pleas(e). You made a commitment.

Will you ignore it?

But the joy is gone.

What seemed fun, is now a chore and no one takes it seriously.

My daughter has been on a synchro swim team for the last five years. I remember the day I took her to the public pool in town and saw the photocopied sign on the bulletin board asking “Want to try something new?” Synchro combines gymnastics and swimming and dance, three activities she’s already skilled at. She’s interested and I’m a little surprised. And proud of her willingness to take a risk. Four girls attend that first class – Sunday nights at 8 p.m. By the second class there’s just two left. The coach, an older woman who “swam synchro with the great Esther Williams in the fifties” seems so wizened and feeble. I sit nearby while the coach lectures her students and uses a barbie doll to demonstrate synchro moves. After class I help haul her PA system and underwater speaker up out of the water and across the parking lot to her car.

A year later the coach’s husband has a heart attack and she announces her “retirement.” The team dissolves. But the girls want to continue. “Is this something you really, really want to pursue?” Yes, she does. And I search and find another team, one much more expensive and much further away. Hesitancy about an uncertain future turns to love. The potential outweighs the setbacks. Her loyalty is tested repeatedly. I watch as she poses for photos smiling and holding a purple eleventh-place ribbon. How many times that happens. She’s always brave until we pull out of the parking lot. And then the tears. My heart breaks. This is life, and sometimes, frequently it hurts.

“I try so hard, but the other girls just don’t seem to care.” She wants her team, her friends, her synchro family to be the very best. And she gives everything. It’s not enough. The defeats accrue.

My age and experience affords me a certain level of wisdom. A blindman could see the blossoming frustration. The sullen attitude before practices. The complaining and pleading … “Please, can we skip today’s practice. Please.” No, you may not. Finally she breaks. I don’t .. I can’t … I won’t …

She expects me to force her to go. I don’t. Instead we talk.

“This doesn’t make you happy anymore.”

Leave … or stay. It’s your choice. Does anything about it make you happy? She agrees she’ll give it more time. And still she cries. Life is too short, child. Don’t do this to yourself. The choice torments her.

“You don’t understand!” she wails.

On one hand, be responsible, tough it out, stick with this thing that has stopped bringing you joy and be a team-player. Or, turn your back on this part of life and pursue other things she’s grown to love – local friends, art, volleyball, etc … Torn in two. It’s hard to watch.

For you, I will make the decision she wants, but can’t. Finish the week and I’ll call your coach. On her last day, her favorite teammate catches a ride with us. While I drive the girl chats innocently, merrily in the backseat about practice, teammates and their upcoming synchro meet. “We’re getting fitted for competition suits in a few weeks … what do you think of the new color scheme? ” She’s unaware of what’s coming. My daughter smiles and nods. Pretending like this feels awkward and deceitful.

At the end of practice, she takes a last look at her teammates. Says her goodbyes like she always does. “See you Saturday!” one of the other girls shouts.

I try to hold hand as we walk through the dark back to car now covered with a fine dusting of snow. She ignores me and stares at her phone.

Tomorrow is another day. And this chapter of your life is now over.