Sometimes You Gotta Do, What You Gotta Do

When I was in college, I studied harpsichord with Preethi de Silva, a remarkable musician whose wisdom has stuck with me over the years. I remember watching her begin a performance not by playing the keys, but by knocking on the instrument—rhythmically tapping, as though warming the harpsichord up with her own heartbeat. Afterward, I asked her about it. She simply said, “Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Another time, I asked her how she knew when a piece of music she was writing was finished.“It’s like making a dress,” she said. “You can’t make the sleeve too long. You just know.”

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about her words as I connect to two lifelong loves: swimming and making art.

Swimmer on the starting block.

I’ve returned to swimming not because anyone told me to, but because it called me. At first, it was just a daily habit, but slowly it’s become something more—a way of connecting with others, with my body, and with time itself. No one pressures me to compete, yet I signed up for a swim meet. I’m nervous. Racing feels vulnerable, like giving a speech used to. But now, public speaking no longer scares me—maybe this will be the same.

A friend once brought me bungee jumping for my birthday. Most people go once and call it a day. She signed us up for five jumps. By the fourth, I wasn’t scared anymore. That experience taught me something: maybe the only way through fear is repetition. Maybe I just need to keep showing up.

Clay study of a swimmer - capturing the body in motion.

Swimming has also begun to shape my artwork. I’ve started making clay figures inspired by the different strokes—bodies in tension, in motion, in stillness. In one piece, a swimmer balances on a starting block, hands planted, legs frozen before the official starts the race. It feels like a visual metaphor for the courage to show up, even when you’re unsure. Another figure, legs curled in a powerful kick, recalls the rhythm of a breaststroke underwater.

These figures aren’t polished. They’re raw and searching—just like me. But they speak. They remind me that art isn’t only about observing from the sidelines; it’s about participating in life.

The most powerful part of breaststroke is the kick.

At meets, I’ve seen a swimmer climb to the diving block from a wheelchair. Another steps out of the pool using a cane. Some are in their 80s. That kind of presence and perseverance humbles me. These are people who keep showing up. That’s something I want to do too—in swimming, in art, and in life.

Today I listened to an episode of Hidden Brain that encouraged listeners to tell stories from the driver’s seat, not the passenger’s. I think that’s what I’m trying to do: not just go along for the ride, but choose my path. Make my art. Swim my race. Be present, even when it’s scary.

Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.