Dive In Anyway

by Susie Shaw

We just put in a pool.

I know. It sounds crazy.

Especially when you consider how many children drown each year. Over 4,000 in the U.S. Drowning is the leading cause of accidental death for kids ages 1 to 4. I know the statistics. I read them. I tried to ignore them. I couldn’t.

And still, I did it anyway.

Because it’s summer. And my little guy, Bodhi, wakes up before the birds. Before the sun even has a chance to think about rising. By 8 AM, we’ve already done everything: Magna-Tiles, puzzles, snacks, shows, snacks again. And then he looks at me and says, “What are we going to do now, Mom?”

And I don’t always have an answer. The beaches aren’t open yet. The day stretches long. My grief stretches longer.

Enter the pool.

I thought it might help. That it would give us something. Joy. Movement. A little piece of childhood we could claim as ours. But it also scares me. Probably more than it would scare most parents.

Because I’m not just any parent. I’m a bereaved mom.

My oldest son, William, died in a tragic ski accident in 2019. He was 9. And if I’ve learned anything from that unthinkable, unbearable day, it’s this: even when you do everything right, when your kid is careful and cautious and experienced, when you are right there, accidents still happen.

William had started skiing at age 3. He was confident and thoughtful on the slopes. He loved practicing his turns more than speeding downhill. He was just feet behind my husband on an easy trail in Montana when he veered off the edge. It made no sense. But it still happened.

So yes, I got the pool. But not without preparing. Bodhi’s been in swim lessons all year. We’ve installed door chimes. Cameras. We have a pool cover that could hold the weight of an elephant. The key to open it is hidden away, only accessible to me and Nick. I've done everything I can think of.

And still. That lump in my throat? It doesn’t go away.

I feel it every time Kai goes out on a boat with my brother. Every time Nick grabs the paddleboard and disappears into the harbor. Will they come back? I don’t know. I never know.

But here’s the part I’m learning, slowly, painfully, tenderly. We don’t get to control what happens. We only get to choose how we live in the not knowing.

And I want to live. I want to let my boys play. I want to have friends over. I want to fill our yard with water and laughter and popsicles and joy. I want our home to feel alive.

Not in spite of our grief. But because of it.

Because once you’ve lost a child, you understand what’s at stake. You know how precious a normal day can be. You know the ache of an empty chair, and how sacred it is to still have little feet running across the deck.

This is the hardest part of parenting after loss. Trying to protect your living children without paralyzing them. Without shrinking their world because yours shattered.

We take precautions. We hold our breath. And then we let go. Just enough to let the joy in.

So this summer, we’re diving in. With fear. With hope. With that ever-present ache.

With grief and with gratitude, tangled up together like wet towels on the floor.

Because the truth is, none of us are ever fully safe. And none of us are ever fully ready.

But love asks us to try anyway. To show up. To keep living.

So I’m doing it. I’m watching the water. I’m holding my breath. And I’m letting my child swim.

Dive in, friends.