Paddle Out

I started surfing in my late 40s.

I will never be a great surfer, and I’m okay with that.

I know my limits. I’m happiest on a mellow 2–3 foot day. Maybe in my 20s, when I was athletic, fearless, and a little more aggressive, I could have been decent. But that’s not really the point anymore.

Nothing makes me come alive the way surfing does.

Not because of the adrenaline, but because of how it pulls me into the present moment. It’s the same reason I love skiing and rock climbing. Everything else fades—worries, bills, rumination—and I’m just… there.

Like a kid playing.
Focused, in flow, active, and meditative all at once.

When I pull on my wetsuit and stand on the beach, I pause. I take a breath.

I thank the ocean and the swells for allowing me this time.

Connection with nature feels sacred to me. I offer gratitude. I ask for safety. I ask for presence. I thank her for connecting me back to my inner child.

Then I paddle out.

Turtling under waves. Moving between sets. Learning to find the smoothest current instead of fighting against it.

I’ve learned, sometimes the hard way, that pushing against the current drains everything. Or that a rip current can be a friend or a force to respect.

I’ve been humbled by waves well within my ability.

And slowly, I learn her rhythms.
The rise and fall.
The pauses.
The build.
The timing.

I feel incredibly lucky to do this. It fills something in me that not much else can.

And maybe the most surprising part…

The voices quiet.

The loud, relentless, and unforgiving inner critic gets drowned out by the ocean.

Out there, I can say honestly:
I’m not a great surfer.

And it doesn’t matter.

Because I love it.

I celebrate the small improvements. I laugh when I get tossed or pearl. And when I catch a good wave and ride it out—I feel pure joy.

The kind that overrides ego completely.

So I’ve been asking myself…

Why don’t I treat the rest of my life this way?

Because when it comes to things like writing my book or building my wellness business, those same voices come back loud and harsh.

Telling me I’m not ready.
Not good enough.
Too late.

But surfing reminds me:

I don’t have to be great to begin.

When I miss a wave, more will come.
When I fall, more will come.
When the waves are small, I take them, and I learn.

I don’t need to prove anything.

I just need to paddle out.

So that’s my intention.

To treat my life, my work, my writing, my business, like surfing.

To show up.
To stay humble.
To learn.
To let it be messy.
To celebrate the small wins.

To stop letting the inner critic keep me standing on the shore.

So I set aside the doubt.

I walk past the imagined judgment, the expectations, the noise.

I thank the ocean for her gift.

And I paddle out.