Personal Essay
What My Fear of Water Taught Me About Wonder
In a ruthlessly reverent sort of way
Kauai, February 2023 — The current’s abnormally rapid rush rang in my ears — as did our guide’s seasoned warning of the danger in crossing the river at a water level so high. An unease settled in my stomach as I stared at a rock, that we were told is typically visible, submerged in water.
It was like staring into the swell of an anxiety attack, and I knew better than my intrusive FOMO-fueled thoughts to ignore that.
My nightmares of drowning began when I was in high school. Ever since, my caution of everything aquatic only compounded.
I love watching ocean foam flood against my feet, but the darkness underneath is enough for me to dart back out before I am waist-deep.
I cherish a boat day with friends, though after two runs of wakeboarding plunging headfirst into the water, my chest will start tightening.
I’ve even had a panic attack in a public pool — which perhaps had no cause related to the water, but nonetheless deterred me from ever returning.
And don’t even get me started on tsunamis.
I enjoy being near water — sand between my toes, drink in hand on the boat deck, lounging poolside with a book. But I remain wary of what lies for me beneath the surface, the result of which very often is a panic-stricken, full-lunged, and flustered woman.
Despite this, or perhaps because of this, natural bodies of water have always felt to me like some deep and sacred secret, one too ephemeral for humans to understand or deserve. I think of these breathtaking bodies as ones that hold seemingly-contrary truths — delightful from the safety of the shore and frightening from under the curl of a colossal wave. They are both a cause of destruction and a source of life.
When I observe water’s natural ebb and flow, I am hypnotized with wonder. It dawns on me then that part of my fear stems from how much I don’t understand.
What if that’s okay?
Speaking for myself, resolving uncertainty is a pursuit I’m quite intimate with. Fight or flight or freeze? Our bodies — especially anxious ones, like mine — itch to gain information. The unknown is uncomfortable, and we are curious beings.
Even the goal of communication, as I was taught in college, is to reduce uncertainty. We prod and pry and probe at people in attempt to make certain of them. We seek to find certainty in each other to help us find certainty in ourselves, and ultimately, our parts that remain starless.
Because only when we make certain of ourselves, we will find certainty in everything around us. No more discomfort! No more fear! No more anxiety! Right?
What if we didn’t?
I’m beginning to feel like I don’t want to know it all, in part because I simply can’t. I realize this the more I stare at water.
I like to be curious and discover, but I’m not here to race to conclusions. I’m not here to know everything there is to know about life. This is my first one, after all.
“We may never know if we are the driving force behind our lives or if it’s down to some higher power, but there is one thing we do know: We’re here in it now.”
— Damon Dominique, You Are A Global Citizen
I want to be surprised. I want to respect what I can’t understand. I want to feel from within without having it all figured out. I want to accept, rather than feel frustrated about, a world that will hold onto its mystery no matter how hard I try to grab it. I want to stare at the ocean and continue to wonder.
Because honestly, who am I to tame the ocean current that crumbles climbing cities? To discern the wisdom of an ancient river? To capture the solace of salt water?
Who am I to constrain such an unfathomable force into a categorical box for convenience?
These bodies are mighty and multi-faceted and shall remain a beautiful — and comforting — mystery to me.
And perhaps, soaking in my reverence for these earthly bodies, next time I look in the mirror, I won’t grasp at the uncertain but simply smile in awe, at that earthly body too.
Wondering from afar
On the riverbank in Kauai that day, my friends trailed off across the water as it raged against their hips. They made it to the other side! A place I would never, for now, end up knowing.
I’m not here to know everything there is to know about life. This is my first one, after all.
I smiled for them and leaned into my stillness, sitting on a rock and hugging my scratched-up knees. I looked at the water again, and though each curve crashed just as it had before, this time I saw a generous current.
It appeared to be an unforgiving impasse, and it surprised us all.
There is beauty to be found in relinquishing the need for complete understanding. They found their adventure, and I found mine — drifting through the ripples of that river I watched run over and over and over the boulders beneath.
What I also found, in the inscrutable abyss, was a new kind of mental peace.
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