First grade. One day when my parents were busy, I decided to pretend to skateboard on a plastic box. So I was moving around on my wooden floors, box underneath my feet. Suddenly, I felt the box slipping. Panicked, I grabbed onto the bed. My arm kept stretching until it was fully extended. I heard a crack.

The next thing I know, My mom is carrying me and my tear-stained face up the stairs to my napping father (he’s a nurse). Grumpy after being woken up, he slowly realizes what’s happening. He puts me on the couch. After examining me, he says, “It’s just sprained, you’ll be fine.”

The next day, I went happily (but painfully) through the day. I was relieved it wasn’t broken, because then I could still go to swim practice. I get to practice, arm hurting. I am still going on though, because I was sure that it couldn’t be broken. My dad said so. I go through the regular practice, all the different swim styles. Then the coach announces that we were going to go on the diving boards. Yay!