Everything is different.
This spring brought a churning far outside of our understanding. As we pick up the pieces, even what was familiar has now changed. Normal is not as it once was.
We drove to the lake to welcome summer. I deeply wanted the water to be the same. Nevertheless, even the wind on the lake was steadily blowing in a direction I had rarely seen. Typical calm spots were now textured with steady waves. We waited hours for the wind to shift enough for a decent ski run and committed to being on the lake by sunrise in hopes of better water.
My waterski is also new, and amid all the different, this is a change for which I am genuinely excited. Still, my old ski belonged to my mom, and I have been skiing on it for 25 years. I am a rather sentimental person, so I am going to struggle to part with my ski. But I have my own daughter now, and she’s 13. About the same age I was when I upgraded to cutting up water on that Connelly. Maybe the ski is ready for a third generation…
I am now standing on the back of the boat, stuck in the moment that catches my breath before I jump in. I hesitate. I feel like a kid again, but not because I am eager. Feet frozen, I realize I am afraid. I’ve stood in this same spot for nearly 3 decades. I encountered fear here often as a kid, and I am embarrassed to admit it usually creeps back in for the first run of the season.
Most of the time, my anxiety is easy enough to work through, and I’ve experimented with several methods of suppression over the years. Positive self-talk, usually takes too long, so it is not my preferred method. Sometimes distraction helps, perhaps make a joke about the water being cold… Then there is my personal favorite—simply ignore the alarm bells in your head—then dive in. If nothing else motivates me to jump, the fear of regret is most often greater than any fear in the moment and is usually enough to propel me forward.
I ran through all these tactics today before my feet finally left the platform. Which leaves me wondering what it is exactly that I am afraid of?
The cap for women’s waterskiing is 34 miles per hour. I am exceptionally bad at physics, so I am not sure how fast that means a skier is traveling when they cross the wake. But I do know it’s fast enough that I am not enthusiastic about the idea of crashing.
Falls, however, are nothing to fear. Sometimes they clean out my sinuses with lakewater, or leave me seeing stars, or tattoo my body with bizarre shaped bruises, or call out tiny amounts of blood. But, for the most part, ski falls leave me with little more than an injured ego. Though on very rare occasions, I’ve taken some epic falls on the water (like the time I fell out of a parasail twice), and these experiences somehow stay in my mind. They keep me humble, remind me I am small, and help me maintain a healthy respect for the water, so in the end, I am grateful for them too.
There is no rational reason to fear falling on the water. So, I must wonder if the physical part of the fall is really the issue. As a long-distance runner, I am no stranger to pain or sports injuries. There must be something other than a physical threat haunting me.
Somehow, I think I have wronging equated falling to failure. It is the moment when the reality of who I am faces the image I have of myself in my mind. Horrified, I realize I am not as strong as I once was, and I face this as I summersault across the water. My fitness and skill level are now public record, witnessed by the passengers in the boat and anyone else who might be on the water. As I reconcile my ego with reality, I understand not only am I not what I once was, but I am also not who I want to be, and I feel shame. If I stay in the boat, I can deceive myself, but holding onto the rope handle will not allow me to lie.
While there is truth in all the above, there is also deception. Falling does not always equate to failure. Sometimes it runs parallel to courage. The woman I want to be is on the other side of that fall - many of those falls. I will not find her if I stay on this boat, bitterly, quietly stewing with regret.
In this season of churning, I feel like I’m stuck on the back of the boat in many areas of my life. Fear of failure interlaced with a longing for what is behind me keeps my feet glued uncomfortably to the ground. I cannot walk forward, and I cannot walk back. But I can no longer allow my mind to torture me with ‘what-ifs’ all the while shackling me to shame and regret.
So, this season, when all is different, I’ll be different. And for the first time, I’ll commit to falling. Because with each bounce across the surface of the water, I am stronger. As I push the boundaries of myself and ski outside of my comfort zone, I’ll bite the water on purpose. I’m no longer interested in playing it safe. I understand this means I will have to stare at an appalling reflection of myself and push through it. I know this means early mornings, push-ups, TRX workouts, cold water, sore shoulders, bad falls, blistered hands and an array of other discomforts. But with those comes a joy I am incapable of putting words to, the joy of holding tightly to the rope of now while training for what lies ahead.
The wind is still blowing out of a strange direction, but I must find the courage to leave the platform. Commit. Jump in. And like a baptism, sink down into the water and come back up for air.
To be clear—I am still afraid to fall.
But greater still—I am called to it.
