I stand up to my ankles in seawater, squinting through plastic goggles at the clear blue water, snorkel mouthpiece digging into my gums. My feet are trapped in giant flippers, and I feel ridiculous. Taking a few hobbling steps deeper into the water, I contemplate throwing off my mask and snorkel and running back up the beach to my book.

My dad and sister are already floating in the water, heads down, faces submerged. They lie on their stomachs, arms and legs splayed out like starfish. Occasionally, my sister dives underwater, flippers slapping the water. She has always reminded me of a mermaid.

I am not as graceful or as comfortable in the water. I can swim and I enjoy swimming, but I was always the child who clung to the edge of the pool, who stood on my toes for as long as possible when wading out into our lake at home. I could never stay in the water for hours at a time. I get cold easily. My sister received her scuba diving certification before we turned fifteen. I could barely hold my breath underwater for longer than ten seconds.

Now, thought, we are on vacation. It is our first real vacation that lasts longer than a weekend, and is on an island where English is not the first language. The water is warm and clear and very, very blue. I have to do this.

So I wade further out into the ocean. The water is up to my waist now, the waves pulsing against my stomach. I shiver, and decide that if I don’t throw myself under water now, I never will.

Adjusting my mouthpiece and reassuring myself that I can always hold my breath if I need to, I dive under water. At first, I’m terrified to breathe, terrified that I am going to drown and that I will inhale salt water, but after a few seconds of breathing through the mouthpiece I find myself relaxing. If anything, I am more conscious of my breath under water than I am above it. Not only can I feel each breath, I can hear them. I had expected that sound would be muted under water, that I would have to rely purely on my vision, but that is not the case.

I can hear sounds that I cannot even begin to describe. I can hear a sharp crunching, which my Dad tells me later is the sound of fish eating, and of coral. I breathe and I listen to my breaths, and I watch the fish swim below me and around me. I am struck, suddenly, by how peaceful I feel. In the ocean, floating among the waves and the animals, there is no immediate sense of urgency. The animals are hard at work, but I have the privilege of being an observer; I can float above their lives. I will never be able to fully understand this strange, underwater world, but I have the privilege of being in it for at least a little while. I swim with my face submerged for hours, breathing deep, steady, audible breaths, and listening to the strange sounds of ocean. I am comfortable in my own skin, comfortable with my place in vast sea.

That first snorkeling experience was several years ago, but I have found myself thinking about it quite a lot this past week. I have often felt the way I did that day, standing on the edge of something unknown and terrifying, but going forward anyway. I have become more conscious of my breath; how it feels and how it sounds. As 2016 is reaching its close, I am trying to reflect on the lessons I learned that first day in the water: listen to your breath. Open yourself to new possibilities and new ideas. Take a step back. Observe your place in the world. Work to make a change when necessary.

Step into the water. Dive in.

I promise you’ll be able to continue breathing.