Cold Open 

 This technique can get the reader invested in your backstory as opposed to having the read it while wondering if it's going anywhere...now they know it is going somewhere.

In the following personal narrative, this opening drops the reader directly into an intense moment, sparking curiosity and emotional engagement. The following paragraphs would then rewind to explain the events leading up to this moment, revealing the significance of the race, the personal struggles involved, and the ultimate resolution. 

The Last Race

The air was sharp with the smell of chlorine, and the muffled sound of cheers echoed off the pool tiles. My legs quivered as I stood on the starting block, the weight of the moment pressing against my chest like the tightest of wetsuits. The referee’s whistle sliced through the noise, and time seemed to stand still. One breath, two. I leaned forward, arms coiled, waiting for the gun. This was it—the final race of the season, and I was desperate to prove to myself that I wasn’t just another swimmer in the lineup.

Just two months earlier, I had almost quit the team. I was tired of being overlooked, of feeling like my hours of training boiled down to scraping into the middle of the pack. I wanted to be more than the person who swam “good enough” to finish but never good enough to win. But quitting also felt like running away, and I knew deep down that I couldn’t let myself walk away from something I’d worked so hard for without one last fight.

That fight began in practice. I stopped coasting and started timing every lap. Each stroke was a chance to shave off a fraction of a second. Coach noticed the change. “You’ve got something to prove,” he said one day after I hit a personal best during a grueling set. “Prove it when it counts.”

And now, here I was. It counted.

The announcer called my event—the 100-meter freestyle. I felt my stomach churn as I adjusted my goggles and stepped onto the block. I glanced to my left and saw Ashley, the fastest swimmer on our team, who always placed in the top three. To my right was a girl from another school who had blown past me in every meet this season. My throat tightened. Why had I thought I could do this?

The gunshot cracked, and instinct took over. My arms pulled me forward with a rhythm I’d rehearsed a thousand times. I plunged into the water, and the world transformed into a blur of bubbles and adrenaline.

I hit the first wall and flipped, forcing myself to push harder on the return lap. Every muscle screamed, and my lungs burned, but something was different this time—I wasn’t just keeping up; I was gaining ground.

As I approached the final wall, my heart pounded harder than ever. I focused on my strokes, pulling with every ounce of strength I had left. My fingers reached for the touchpad, slamming into it as I felt the water ripple from someone hitting just after me.

When I surfaced, I spun to look at the scoreboard. Lane four—my lane. My name. First place.

The roar of the crowd hit me all at once, and I couldn’t stop myself from grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. I had done it. The months of frustration, the countless hours of practice, the momentary doubts—they had all led me here. I wasn’t just another swimmer.

As I climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel around my shoulders, Coach gave me a nod and a rare smile. “Told you,” he said simply.

For the first time, I believed him.