At the end of the diving board

I stand at the end of the diving board, my toes curled around the rough edge.

My reflection looks back at me as I peer into the pool water, still as glass. Have I always looked like that? Something about my face looks different.

Suddenly, my swimsuit is too tight. Should I have worn the one-piece? The summer air is sweet around me. Why would I want to jump into the chlorine again? My hair drips water down my back, and the only way to make it stop is to dive in.

But I look around the pool, and everyone is watching me, waiting for me to move, to split the water. They tread water or stand in the shallow end, not feeling the goosebumps of the wind on my skin, or the heat of the sun, or the fear of what happens if the dive goes wrong. They only see me standing there, waiting to find out what happens next.

Will she belly flop? Will she retreat, walk back to the stairs, and take each one in?

My muscles scream to finally do it. I’ve swum all my life, and I’ve practiced diving from the edge of the pool countless times. How hard can it be to finally take the leap? But my stomach turns, and my nerves warn of danger: if you flop, everyone will see. If you sink, they’ll have to save you.

But why bother finding the courage to make it to the end of the diving board if I don’t dive into the pool? Headfirst, arms outstretched, belly bare, for all to see?

So I take a few steps back, suck in a long breath, and run to the end of the diving board. Then I jump.

Because if I’m going to stand at the end of the diving board, I might as well leap.