My Route, My Pace

What Water Skiing, Writing, and Recovery Taught Me About Arriving

Tomorrow marks 45 days of writing on Substack. I never expected to write for an audience. Honestly, it never even crossed my mind. But through writing, I’ve started to find myself, and even more powerfully, to find connection in unexpected places.

As some of you know, after I finished a draft of my memoir, I reached out to two of my original eating disorder treatment providers from adolescence: Diane, the founder and director (and my internist) at the outpatient program I was “forced” to attend, and Nancy, my twice-weekly therapist. To my amazement, I found them both after more than 30 years since I had moved on. They each read my memoir. We reconnected in person. That experience was a gift bigger than I can explain.

Not long after, I emailed to ask if either of them happened to be on Substack. I wanted to continue fostering our new connection because being known by them now, as an adult, felt powerful in the warmest way. Both of them laughed a little at the question. They weren’t on social media, no. But when I offered to send my reflections, both said yes.

I had to push past Little Me’s voice, the part of me that feared I was asking too much. I reminded myself they could always say no. Or say yes and quietly delete the emails. But that’s not what happened. They read. They responded. Not publicly, but privately and meaningfully. Sharing my writing with them has become its own kind of gift. One that deserves a post of its own.

Today I want to share something else though.

When I sent Nancy the trilogy of essays I’d written about my relationship with running, she didn’t say much. But what she said landed with force. After the third essay, she replied:

“Your insight and determination will take you where you want to be. It will be fluid—but you know this—three steps forward, one back, then three more forward. When you set your mind to it, you always arrive at your destination. You take your route to get there, but you do get there. And you will arrive with grace and dignity, because that is who you are. This is what I have learned about you as you’ve shared your journey with me.”

Her words blew me out of the water. There I was, still feeling seen by the woman who had once been one of the only people to truly see beneath my carefully curated exterior.

I replied to tell her how much I appreciated her words. But then I wanted to lighten the exchange. So I sent her a photo: me, from that very day, water skiing on one ski. At 47. That might not sound remarkable, but it was the first time I had ever tried it. I grew up water skiing, but never dared to try just one ski. It was too scary. But yesterday, I went for it. And I got up. And my smile was unmistakable.

I wanted her to see a moment of joy in my life, a bit of play and courage and freedom. But she saw more.

She wrote back, simply:

“Exactly what I meant! You always get there. Your route. With grace and dignity.”

She nailed it. I had taken my time,thirty years, in fact. But I got there. And I hadn’t even noticed the deeper meaning of that moment until she reflected it back to me.

And now that I’m sitting with it, I realize this is how I do most things.

Two summers ago, my whole family (minus the little guy) learned to wake surf in a day. Within hours, they were popping up, carving waves, laughing. I watched. I needed to study the board, the rhythm, the falls. I needed to feel ready. I tried it once, on the very last day of the season, and I failed. Impressively.

But last summer, I felt it. I was ready to try again.

I got the “royal flush” more times than I care to count (and yes, it’s as bad as it sounds). But I got a little better each time. I showed up every time we went out on the boat. Not because I expected perfection, but because I wanted to teach myself, and my kids, that growth isn’t about speed or success. It’s about staying in it.

The truth is, when I try new things, I often fall. Sometimes painfully and repeatedly. But when I don’t try, I miss everything. I miss the pride of pushing through fear. The thrill of accomplishment. The quiet reward of being brave.

So I’m learning to tolerate the falls. The bumps, the bruises, the scrapes. Because without those, I never get to the joy. Or the connection. Or the sense of arrival that comes when I do it my way, even if it takes me just a wee bit longer than I'd like. Or thirty years longer.

I’m learning to let failure guide me, not define me. And when I do, it turns out, I can’t fail.