There are two ways to get in the water, and neither of them is the ladder. Luckily for me, there is also more than one way to get out, too.There are two ways to get in the water, and neither of them is the ladder. Luckily for me, there is also more than one way to get out, too.
This past Sunday, I jumped off the dock for the annual swim-across-the-lake at Shawnigan with my friend Gillian. Gillian and her family have been doing this for decades, and I’m proud to have taken part for the last five years or so. The early morning swim is followed by a delicious breakfast. #willswimforbreakfast
Now, Shawnigan is a pretty long lake, but we’re not insane, so we swim the width, and not the length. No one trains for this swim, which takes, on average about 45 minutes’ straight swimming, depending on how much we chat while we make our way across. This swim is a doable thing.
Gillian’s dad follows us in the boat, just in case anyone needs a marine rescue, and to make sure we’re not mowed over by wakeboarding boats and water skiers. #safetyfirst
Here’s the thing: I LOVE this tradition. I’ve always loved the water, and I’m a very strong swimmer. My mom always told me I could swim before I could walk. I’m confident in the water, and sometimes I think I’m probably more comfortable in the water than on land.
The night before the swim, my niece asked me if I thought it was a good idea this year. Since my mom passed away, my grief has manifested itself in all the expected ways, and some surprising ones, too. I’ve lost a lot of weight, and most of my strength and endurance. I guess my body is telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I need more rest and recovery than I’d really like to take.
I told my niece, and the rest of my family, who clearly all agreed that it was a good question, that I’d be just fine. If I got tired, I could flip on my back, and if all else failed, I could always get in the boat.
If you know me, you already know that I never really considered the boat an option.
I’ll tell you right now: I needed to get in the boat. Within about 10 minutes, I told Gillian I couldn’t make it, and without questioning, she put her hand up to flag her dad to bring the boat over. My lungs were on fire, and flipping to float on my back wasn’t cutting it. I may be confident in the water, but even I knew that I was in trouble.
Here’s what I want you to know: I am not good at asking for help. When people ask how they can help me or support me, I never have an answer. I mean, if I knew, I’d probably already have done it.
This is classic fawn behaviour. This is an old pattern, never needing help or attention. Don’t worry about Bay; she’s just fine.
This is yet another gift my mother has left me: grief has taken away a lot of my brave words and pretend okayness. I can’t fake being fine. I am currently unable to push through all the things I normally would. I am, finally, learning how to surrender, mostly because I literally have no other choice.
When God/the Universe want you to learn a lesson, the difficulty will increase until you let it in.
Before I told Gillian I woudn’t be able to finish the swim, there was a flurry of thoughts and concerns in my head: What if I ruined everyone’s swim? Maybe I was being a wimp, or just giving into my self-defeating thoughts. Maybe I should go a little farther and then call it? Surely I could swim a little more.
Let me tell you, by the time Gillian’s dad (aka My Hero) brought the boat over, I realized I had no more gas in my tank. As I made my way the maybe 12 feet over to the boat, I wished the boat was closer. As I grabbed onto the ladder, I realized that if I had gone any longer, I would have actually been in trouble, and that would definitely have been a damper on everyone’s experience.
I needed to put up my hand, and I needed to take the hand that was offered. I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t need help.
And though it bothered me not to be able to finish the swim, I let go of the shame and guilt and disappointment in myself, because it just wasn’t necessary and sure as heck wasn’t going to help or change anything.
When the swimmers had nearly made it all the way across, I jumped back in to finish the swim with them (a very short distance, but it took everything I had). As my friends said, there’s a photo of me jumping in, and a photo of me on the other side of the lake, so as far as they’re concerned, I swam the lake.
And while I normally would hold fast onto my failure like it was my favourite thing to carry, I’m just letting it go.
I did the best I could do. I tried, and I learned I’m still not ready to do all the things I can normally do without a thought. The important thing, though, is that I tried, and even more importantly, that I honoured my body’s boundary.
What I’m learning about surrender is just how hard it is for me to do. Letting go is not something I do easily, or gracefully. But sometimes, you are going to have to let go, whether you want to or not. And just when I think I’ve learned surrender, I find that there are so many more layers of letting go beneath the one you just relinquished.
I’m okay, and I’m not okay. I’m healing, and I need grace (mostly from me), and help (mostly from others). I’m learning to put my hand up. I’m learning to take the help that is offered. And, much to my ego’s surprise, it’s making more of me, not less.
Lucky for me, there are many ways to get out of the water, and the ladder is there when you need it.
Photo by Nick Dunlap
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