The day I decided to learn to swim was uneventful. I was at home breastfeeding my then 14-month-old daughter when I came across a video on social media from a mom blogger I follow. In the video, her 2-year-old daughter fearlessly jumped into a pool while an instructor waited nearby in the water to catch the child. The child did not need to be caught. The child resurfaced as quickly as she had jumped in and stayed afloat by kicking. “Wow, I hope my daughter can do this,” I thought. That thought was immediately followed by, “Wow, I want to do that.”

I was a 38-year-old woman who couldn’t swim.

Over the years, I’ve come up with many reasons why I shouldn’t learn to swim, but the truth is that it was never a priority. I grew up in Chicago, where outdoor activities like going to the pool were limited to the warmer months.

Even then, swimming wasn’t on our list of summer activities. Did my friends and classmates go to the pool with their families? Probably, but if they did, I didn’t know about it. And swimming in the often polluted Lake Michigan wasn’t on the cards either.

In high school, Swimming 101 was a required class for all freshmen. But as luck would have it, the pool was broken my freshman year. Come to think of it, I don’t remember even seeing the pool in my entire four years of high school.

It’s important to know that I’m black. For most of my life, I’ve fit the stereotype that black people can’t swim. Unfortunately, there’s some truth to that stereotype. A national study A study conducted by USA Swimming and the University of Memphis found that up to 70% of blacks/African Americans cannot swim, compared to about 31% of the white population.

Culturally, I knew that while some of my black friends could swim, many could not, compared to my white friends, who all could swim. I wondered what caused these large differences in statistics between the two races, and found that historical systemic racism could be behind it.

Some say that access to swimming pools created geographical and economic barriers for black communities that prevented them from producing swimmers. We must also not forget the racist history of swimming pools. During the era of racial segregation, blacks were often denied access to public pools and beaches. This exclusion prevented many from learning to swim and enjoying water sports.

Even in areas where black communities had access to swimming facilities, they were often underfunded and poorly maintained, making them less attractive and safe to swim in. The lack of access to swimming facilities for previous generations means that many black parents and grandparents did not learn to swim and were therefore less likely to teach their children to swim.

Perhaps the simplest reason I’ve heard for why we can’t swim is that black women in particular avoid water sports to protect the delicate structure of their hair and ensure its preservation. I don’t believe that.

If I’m honest, being a mother played a bigger role in my desire to swim than being black. Not only did I want to learn to swim to inspire my daughter, but I also wanted to be able to jump into a pool without hesitation if she was in trouble and needed to be rescued.

As the warmer months arrived, social media flooded my timeline with ads and popular videos about toddlers drowning in water due to lack of supervision and inexperience. I was paranoid and scared. And I had reason to be. The National Alliance to Prevent Drowning says drowning is the number one cause of death in children ages 1 to 4. The only way to minimize my fears would be to learn the life-saving skill.

It was difficult to find adult swimming lessons in my area, as most of the classes were geared toward children. But I eventually ended up taking group classes at the YMCA. My first class got off to a rocky start, as I was late for the 30-minute class while looking for a parking spot. Still, that didn’t stop me from jumping right in.

“Hey, welcome. We’re going to glide across the pool,” my teacher said. “What is gliding?” I thought. I quickly realized how my other classmates – mostly black and Latino women – were lying flat on their stomachs in the water with their bodies stretched out. When I tried it, I felt intimidated and free at the same time.

After mastering gliding and floating, I moved on to freestyle, the most basic swimming technique. In my experience and what teachers say, it is much harder for adults to learn to swim than for children. Most adults have developed a fear of the water, something that is often lacking in fearless children, and adults also think too much. Again, children tend to act first and think later, or at least that is what my toddler does.

My hips sank, I gasped for air, and I just couldn’t figure out how to kick from the hips. Synchronizing my body parts to move seamlessly at the same time felt unnatural, like I was learning to walk for the first time. I got frustrated. But I wasn’t frustrated enough to give up again.

Ten years ago, I took several rounds of swimming lessons and quit without mastering the sport. Childless, young and free, my only goal was to be able to hold a margarita while staying afloat in the deep end of the pool with my friends. Needless to say, this was not enough of an incentive for me to continue with the lessons and practice on my own.

This time was different. My daughter was my biggest motivator and also shattered the stereotype that so many of us black people have of not being able to swim. I also wanted to prove to myself that through unwavering commitment I could get through something that was physically challenging and completely new to me and my body. There was no turning back.

Every Saturday I showed up for class and my solo practice sessions no matter how discouraged I was. And although there were tears, there was also joy. One of the most important pieces of feedback my teacher gave me week after week was “relax and have fun.” Relaxing and having fun was something I never thought about during the whole process. But the moment I was able to lean into rest and find enjoyment in what I was doing, the water felt like it was hugging my body. Yes, I wanted to learn to swim for safety reasons, but I could also do it for fun and it was a great workout, I might add.

Eventually, I outgrew the group classes at the YMCA and started taking private lessons. The personal attention was the change I needed to correct a few form errors and master freestyle. Eight months into my journey, I could finally say I could swim.

My daughter will undoubtedly learn to swim. She loves the water and at two years old can already follow directions and understand the basics of water safety. I would prefer her to be trained by an instructor and someone with more experience than me, but I will be nearby and monitor her progress.

Learning to swim for my daughter’s sake hasn’t completely eliminated my fears. Do they ever go away as a parent? But I’m much more confident now about water safety for myself and my daughter. I won’t be jumping off a cliff or swimming in the ocean anytime soon, but I will jump into a pool to save my daughter without hesitation, God forbid I ever have to do that.

Most of all, I’m proud of myself. I’m continuing to take swimming lessons and train on my own because I want to feel more comfortable in the water than I have been before. I’m also no longer a statistic or a stereotype in the conversations about “black people not being able to swim.”

Black people can swim. And I am one of them.

Shanetta McDonald is a Los Angeles-based writer passionate about telling stories about wellness, culture, and women’s health from a BIPOC perspective. Her stories have been published in Allure, InStyle.com, Refinery29, Essence, and Well+Good. When she’s not writing, she’s busy diving into motherhood and living a fulfilling life. You can read her work here: linktr.ee/shanettam.