I believe that success is measured by three things: achievement of personal happiness, the difference you make in the world, and the people who love you. Personal happiness and making a difference in the world, regardless of monetary gain is a huge part of how I define success. I believe that Bill Gates is a success not only because he was for a time, the wealthiest man in the world, but because he has used his wealth to make the world a better place, through such organizations as his Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. In my view the family in a small house living on an average salary that still manages to help others successful, too. The most important measure of a person’s success though, is the people who love you. I do not mean how popular someone is. I mean how many people love you because you impact them in a positive way. There is no to point in having endless wealth if you are not loved by the people around you. For instance the character Scrooge, in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol was very wealthy, but he was not a success because everyone disliked because he refused to help others in need. It wasn’t until he shared his wealth with others and gained friends that he became successful; and could see himself as successful, too. Being rich is a good, but being happy and sharing it with the rest of the world so that you gather around you a group of people who love each other and love you is the greatest success.

I didn’t know what success was until I lost it. That is, until I lost what I thought success was. I used to swim competitively for my high school, and my local summer-league team. I clawed my way from the bottom of the team until I was just two tenths of a second away from a varsity time. I was determined to be the best. The swim team was my life; I had few friends beyond my coaches and teammates, but I was content. Unfortunately, little errors in my stroke that I didn’t correct when I was younger led to injuries. Suddenly I found that the joints in my shoulders couldn’t last more than a hundred meters without hurting, and my knees were starting to give way when I climbed stairs. By the time I realized I needed to take action, it was too late. Permanent damage had been done, and I was forced to quit the team. I was devastated. For a full year I moped around and wondered what on earth I was supposed to do. I began to swim with one of my old coaches at the local YMCA, slowly relearning the strokes even though it was painfully obvious I would not be competing again. We were friends, and she suggested that I work with her teaching swim lessons. I was reluctant, to say the least. I wasn’t sure I even liked children, not to mention working with them. I was a timid public speaker at best, and had no qualifications to be teaching anything, much less a skill as important as swimming. Still, after a summer of absolute boredom, I agreed, and hired on as a Swim Instructor Level 1.

Then came the first day of actual lessons. My first class was the lowest level swimmers, ages three to five; my teaching partner was Mel, my former coach. I was more terrified than the three year olds getting in the water for the first time. Mel started class, and I tagged along dutifully and copied everything she did. Partner teaching was fun, I discovered, because you got to talk and laugh with the more experienced teacher, without doing much by yourself.

This pattern continued until the third lesson of the day. We had just started the class when suddenly a girl in a different level began to scream and cry, refusing to get in the water. Mel, who was the senior employee, went over to see what the problem was. The male instructor spoke with her for a minute. Mel nodded, and then came over to where I was standing. The girl, it turned out, was afraid of boys, and as the only available female instructor I was being moved over to her lesson. I was struck by paralyzing terror. The little girl, whose name was Hannah, was a private lesson, meaning that I would have to do all the actual teaching, with the other instructor only offering verbal advice from a distance. Up until that point I had had exactly one hour of experience, so “unprepared” was an understatement Eventually, I managed to somehow convince her to get in the water. She smiled the biggest smile I have ever seen when she figured out how to blow bubbles for the first time. I had never seen anyone smile like that before, and her parents were thrilled. After that lesson with her, I had learned something I never expected: I love making a difference in people’s lives, even if all I do is show a four-year-old how to put her face in the water. Soon I was teaching all my classes solo.

Now, over a year later, I know what success is. The children I teach and their families, my coworkers, even the whole YMCA I work at, are a second family to me. People greet me by name. The children are happy to see me, and their parents smile at me. When I swam for the team, people only smiled when I won. I am happy, I have people who love me, and my job gives me a chance every day to teach kids and adults a skill I love, that will protect them in the future. I make a difference. Success is not how much money you have, or the size of your house. It is the impact you have on the world, and the people who love you.