Edges and undertows
Before we jump in, this article is more personal than you might be used to. And it also comes with a trigger warning as I talk about grief and drowning, so if you don’t have capacity to read on, trust your knowing.
I didn’t go for the cold water plunge today.
It was very cold, but that’s a given, and kind of the whole point of the cold water plunge.
The wind was fierce. The kind of wind that catches you and forces its way into your lungs and won’t let up.
The waves looked bullying. The kind that would push you down just for having the audacity to stand up to them.
But it wasn’t that triumvirate of challenge that had me stay firmly planted on the shoreline this morning.
It was the undertow that scared me.
My sister Karen drowned when she was four. My mother was with her when it happened. She was also six months pregnant with my sister Christina when it happened. I am undone when I imagine the kind of grief my sweet Stine was born into. I came along four years later.
I share this to say I was raised with an extraordinary fear of the undertow.
Because when the story was ever retold, (and trust me, it was so very rarely ever told, that every detail was held as sacred and sacrosanct), it was the undertow. It was the undertow that took her life. The undertow that roiled under the seemingly calm surface and changed everything and plunged my parents into unimaginable grief.
My parents put us in swimming lessons the first moment they could. As such, I am a relatively strong swimmer…though I’m not exactly sure that actually means.
But still, my mother spent the rest of her life warning me about undertows.
And my father spent his life making sure I didn’t live in fear of them. Some of my favourite memories were of playing in the waves with my father.
If bodysurfing was a competitive sport, I’d have been the silver medal winner to his gold.
But there was one time in Portugal when I was about nine years old. A girl in my school had died of meningitis and my mother’s trauma response was to get us as far away from whatever danger she feared was possible. My father had done a construction job for someone who offered to pay him in villa accommodations in the Algarve. It was across the ocean and that seemed far enough for my mother.
I will always remember the afternoon. We had gone shopping in the morning…I bought a dress with Portuguese lace detailing for my cousin’s wedding…and then we went to the beach. My father and I bodysurfed in the waves while my mother and sister read in the sun. The waves were bigger and rougher than I had ever experienced but my mother was uncharacteristically relaxed on the shore and my dad was within arm’s reach. Until a wave walloped me from the side, and then he wasn’t. In the impact, I bit my tongue and drew blood. It was then that I realized my Dad was quite far, and there was a moment of dread in the calm between the waves. The dread became panic as I realized the undertow was pulling me under. I screamed just before I went down and he managed to get to me.
So.
Fair to say a healthy fear of undertows was then established, beyond the reasonable fears my mother had imprinted on me.
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A couple of weeks ago, my friend Cath and I went for a dip in cold, wintery Lake Ontario. Just the two of us. Up until that point, I’d only dipped when the water had been calm and when we were part of a larger group.
That day, the waves were rough and the undertow was relentless.
Like I said, I’m a strong swimmer, and Cath is an extraordinarily strong swimmer. I trust her and she trusts me. But once we were waist deep, it became super clear to me that no matter how strong we were, it would be no match for a hypothermia-undertow combination. And one thousand per cent not worth the risk for me. I heard the NO from deep within and got out just as soon as I could. Frankly, for the balance of the day I felt foolish for having taken that risk, even if it was the shortest dip ever.
So here’s the thing.
I meet my edges all the time. The edges of my conditioning. The edges of my beliefs. The edges of my comfort.
I do so for a myriad of reasons. Because I’ve been called to do so. Because I know resilience must continue to be cultivated. Because some narratives need to be rewritten. Because I feel it in my bones.
I help my clients do the same.
AND…I often talk about being on the precipice of something important. And that we have the choice to step up or back down.
And I mean that with everything I have. We have the choice.
Yesterday I chose to back down.
Without shame. Without recrimination. Without blame. And? In pure and honest truth, with a tinge of sadness as my friends traversed the frigid ice beach to plunge past their own edges. I watched and marveled and celebrated as they did what I wasn’t able to do. Pouring them hot sweet tea and zipping up their coats when they emerged and their frozen fingers failed them.
Knowing my decision was the right one for me and still, feeling the grief for the missed moment.
Both/and.
Not all edges are for us to push past. Some NOs are to be trusted. Not every risk is worth taking.
Our job is to know which ones are.
And then to make sure we have the right support to climb that mountain, get in the frigid water, slay those demons or create a legacy worth leaving.
I am NOT the person to take you into an angry, wavy, ice chunk-laden lake with a fierce undertow, but I just may be the person to take you up the mountain of your choosing.
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