Coming Up For Air | ✓

bonus chapter | at thirty, stella donahue's only getting started

AT THIRTY, STELLA DONAHUE'S ONLY GETTING STARTED

2031/05/06

Sub-categories: Editorial. Cover Story. Shot of Wellness.

She's the holder of several world records. Every time you think you know how many medals she's won, she adds another three to her collection. Now the Olympic swimmer invites HART Magazine into her North Carolina home for a rare, candid conversation.

By Joelle Miller

—

I'm stood in the center of a town straight-out of a romance novel (you know what I mean—the town with the colorful houses where the high-strung New Yorker unavoidably falls in love with the grumpy-turned-sweet Bed & Breakfast-keeper), outside a bustling café on Main Street, as I spot her.

Stella Donahue is sat by one of the tables on the other side of the large floor-to-ceiling window, a phone pressed to her ear. A pen is pinched between her fingers, a notch of concentration between her brows, eyes zeroed in the pink notebook before her as she nods along, speaks, jots something down on the page.

She looks up, notices me and instantly breaks out in a beaming, inviting, toothy smile—those who've been lucky enough to turn their TV on just as the camera focuses on Donahue post getting out of the pool will know exactly what I'm talking about. Along with the freckles smattered across her nose, the simple white tee and jean-combo and the mid length, sun bleached brown hair, there's a sort-of cool girl laid-back, surfer California style to it. Which is ironic, considering she grew up on the East Coast. 

 As she waves for me to step inside, I find myself somewhat flustered. Nearly starstruck. (Remember that video circulating circa 2022 of a young woman with the most awful curtains bangs fainting as she came across Serena Williams backstage at a HART Magazine x Allure event? Yep. That was me.)

The A.C. runs on a high inside the café and my nerves have sufficiently cooled down as I reach the table. Donahue, still on the phone, shoots me an apologetic grimace as she covers the mic.

"I'm so sorry," She greets me. "—give me a sec."

I sneak a peek at the notebook. It's a jumble of numbers and some longer, some shorter notes. Tactics. Speed. Form. Moods. Among other things. Donahue nods along to the voice on the other end of the line, mumbles in agreement, jots something else down. A goodbye follows.

"Sorry," She says again as she hangs up, folding the notebook shut. She drops it into a white cotton tote along with her phone, spinning around on the backless stool to fully smile at me. She gestures vaguely, explaining, "I'm doing all my training from here this month—which means a lot of phone-time."

I assure her there are no worries. The phone-call's actually given me enough time to gather my senses. Another fainting-incident on the resume diverted, at least for now. I glance around the café she's chosen for us, filled with costumers young and old, the tables differ in height and size, orange takeaway cups tower behind the barista counter, the sweet scent of espresso beans fill the space.

"This place surely seems popular."

"They have the best bagels in town," Donahue tells me as she leads the way toward the counter. "Actually," A small laugh escapes her lips. "It's probably the only place where they have bagels in town, but they have great iced tea. I'm very particular when it comes to my iced tea."