Swimming, in Gurgaon, is seasonal. In December of 2024, I let my Cult Sports membership expire deliberately. Gurgaon’s winters—thick with smog and morning chill—made the 6-7 AM slot impractical. The cold air bit harder, and the pool’s steam mingled uncomfortably with the haze. It felt logical to pause. I told myself I’d restart when the weather softened, when the smog cleared, when mornings felt less like a battle. A month later, I don’t regret the decision, but I miss the act itself. The water’s weightlessness, the rhythm of strokes, the solitude of laps—these are irreplaceable. Other exercises fill the time, but not the same space.
When I stopped swimming, I shifted to the gym. Weight training and running became substitutes. The transition was seamless. Treadmills and dumbbells don’t demand weather-resistant commitment. There’s no smog to navigate, no icy tiles underfoot. Physically, the trade-off has been neutral. My body hasn’t protested—no stiffness, no aches. If anything, muscle gains from lifting are visible. But functional fitness isn’t the point. Swimming was never just about utility. It was about the immersion, the quiet focus that running or reps can’t replicate. The gym sustains the body. Swimming, for me, sustained something quieter, harder to name.
Habits adapt. The mind reroutes. For a month, I didn’t think much about the pool. Routine has a way of filling voids. Mornings now involve sleep and evening point to weights or a run, and there’s satisfaction in that consistency. Yet, lately, I catch myself calculating: the smog has thinned, the sun rises earlier, the air no longer numbs. Practicality nudges me. My Cult Sports app sits unused, but I’ve started browsing the membership page again. Renewing isn’t urgent, but it feels inevitable. Not out of obligation, but because I want to glide through water again. Not because I “should”, but because I miss the particular calm of a morning swim—the way it frames the day, distinct from the gym’s sweat and clatter.
I’ll likely renew the membership soon. Gurgaon’s summers are kinder, and the pool’s morning slot no longer clashes with winter’s harshness. This isn’t about correcting a lapse or chasing guilt. It’s simpler: some activities carve niches nothing else can fill. Swimming, for me, is one. The gym keeps me strong, but the pool offers a different kind of clarity—a meditative repetition that running lacks. I don’t need to return to it, but I want to. Sometimes, missing something isn’t a problem to solve. It’s just a quiet acknowledgment that certain rhythms matter, even if they’re paused.