Eternal Ephemerals

Surrender

The sun was already low in the sky by the time Jules slipped into the pool. The water was cool against her skin, a welcome contrast to the thick summer air that hung over the world above the surface. As she pushed off from the edge and began her slow, steady strokes, the water parted smoothly beneath her hands, enveloping her in its quiet rhythm.

The water always greeted her like an old friend now, though that hadn't always been the case.

Jules had always liked the idea of control. She wasn't a control freak, not in the way people used the term. She was more subtle about it. Her control wasn't loud or rigid; it was careful, quiet. She liked to understand—needed to understand—before she dove into anything. Before starting something new, she'd spend hours preparing herself, researching every detail, making sure there were no surprises. Whether it was something as small as buying a book or as big as moving across the country, she found comfort in the familiar.

She liked to feel grounded. It made the world feel safe.

And yet, here she was—in water. The one place that required her to do the opposite of everything she instinctively knew. It demanded she surrender, demanded she trust what couldn't be tamed.

Swimming had changed her.

She hadn't always been comfortable in the water. In fact, when she'd first started lessons, the idea of submerging herself in something so vast, so unknowable, had felt absurd. There was no controlling water. No memorizing its steps, no planning for the currents. The water didn't care about her need to know or understand. It simply was. It asked for her trust and nothing else.

At first, trust felt like too much to ask.

The fear had crept into her body as soon as she'd felt her feet leave the safety of the pool floor. The water rose to her neck, and for a moment, she had felt the sharp edge of panic: What if it doesn't hold me? What if I sink?

That first time, her body had tensed up, her muscles stiff with resistance, her brain trying to control what couldn't be controlled. The harder she fought, the more the water seemed to pull her down, as if it was challenging her to surrender—to let go.

It took weeks, months even, before she learned that swimming wasn't just about technique or strength. It was about learning to trust in something larger than herself. The water demanded that she give up control, that she stop anticipating every second. And as she moved through it now, her strokes growing longer, her breath steady and rhythmic, Jules understood what the water had been trying to teach her all along.

It was about letting go.

With each stroke, she could feel it—that release, that quiet surrender. There was no more thinking now. No overanalyzing. Just movement, breath, and trust. Her body knew what to do, even when her mind didn't. The water held her up, steady and unwavering, as long as she let it.

And here, in this cool, blue-tiled world, she could finally just be.

In the water, Jules didn't have to manage everything. She didn't have to anticipate what might happen next. There were no plans to make, no futures to predict. Here, there was only the present moment—the steady inhale and exhale, the gentle push of the water against her body.

Her mind, normally full of checklists and scenarios, was finally quiet.

She pushed herself harder, her arms cutting through the water, her muscles straining just enough to feel alive. Her heart raced in her chest, but her thoughts were calm, fluid, like the water itself. She was no longer fighting to stay afloat—she was flowing with it, moving in time with something greater than herself.

Wasn't that the lesson?

The more she tried to control the outcome, the harder it became. But when she surrendered, when she trusted the process, the water, her own instincts—that's when she felt the ease, the peace.

As she reached the far end of the pool, Jules paused, catching her breath, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of the wall. Her heart was still pounding, but in that strong, steady way that made her feel alive. For a moment, she just floated there, her body suspended in the cool water, her gaze lifting toward the pale sky now fading into twilight. The world around her was muted, quiet. The only sound was the soft ripple of the water.

This is what it feels like, she thought. To let go. To trust something other than yourself.

Her breath steadied, and she let herself float, her arms and legs weightless beneath the surface. In the water, trust came easier—once she'd stopped fighting it, stopped resisting. The water had no agenda, no expectations. It didn't ask anything of her. It simply held her, steady and constant.

But a thought crept in, one that always found its way into the stillness.

Trusting a person wouldn't be this easy.

The realization hit her with the same subtle weight it always did. In the water, trust came naturally, eventually. But with people? That was different. People weren't like water. They weren't steady, predictable. People had their own currents, their own tides, their own hidden depths. They could let you down without warning.

Could she ever let go like this with someone?

Her body tensed slightly at the thought, and she felt herself sink just the tiniest bit. She adjusted, shifting her weight, regaining her balance in the water. It was instinct now, this knowing how to float again. But with people... it wasn't so simple.

Trusting the water had taken time, but in the end, it had been straightforward. The water never lied. It didn't pretend to be something it wasn't. But people—people had secrets, fears, motives. Trusting them meant giving up more than control. It meant giving up pieces of herself.

Would she ever find someone who could hold her up the way the water did?

Jules closed her eyes, feeling the gentle pressure of the water beneath her, supporting her without question. In the water, trust was natural, automatic. But in life, it was harder. It required more than surrender. It required vulnerability.

But even as the thought lingered, she felt a quiet resolve building inside her. Swimming had taught her to let go, to trust the unknown. Maybe, just maybe, it had also taught her that trust wasn't something to be forced or demanded—it was something to be found in the right conditions. In the right person.

And maybe, she thought, as she floated there in the fading light, someday she would.