Ride The Wave
Ride the Wave
Three months sober and somehow my biggest emergency was no longer pills—it was sunscreen, fruit snacks, and kids arguing over a shell like we weren’t standing on a beach covered in a million more.
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
“Mom, I need water.”
“Mom! She took my shell!”
That was our beach day.
Not peaceful ocean sounds. Not relaxing. Just kids yelling “Mom” from every direction while I dug through beach bags with sunscreen-covered hands trying to figure out where I packed the snacks.
My sober date is June 4, 2024, so this trip was only a few months into treatment. Still new enough that I was counting days. Still new enough that every morning felt like okay…we’re doing this again. And still new enough that my body had officially started filing complaints.
Nobody talks enough about that part.
You get sober and suddenly your body wakes up like great news—we feel everything now and unfortunately we hate all of it.
Random aches.
Tired for no reason.
Walking through sand somehow feeling like a full-body workout.
So I had zero plans to get in the ocean.
I planned on sitting in my chair looking supportive and handing out snacks like an unpaid beach employee.
The kids had other plans.
“Mom! Come in!”
“No.”
“Please!”
“No.”
“Mom!”
“No…but lovingly.”
Eventually I gave in.
Walked toward the water.
Made it ankle deep.
Then knee deep.
Then immediately found my husband because I swim like a three-year-old with way too much confidence and absolutely none of the skill.
The current was stronger than I expected.
And I cannot swim for shit.
So naturally my husband became my emotional support flotation device.
Then a wave hit me.
Then another.
And suddenly I had sand in my hair, in my mouth, in my swimsuit, and honestly in places that made me stop and question whether beaches should even be legal.
The kids were laughing so hard they could barely stand.
I was coughing up saltwater trying to act like I was completely fine.
Then came the official dad-at-the-beach moment.
The kids convinced my husband to let them bury him in the sand.
Full commitment.
Legs buried.
Arms buried.
Basically laid out like a crime scene while they decorated him with shells.
He played along like a champ.
Dad of the year.
The next morning he woke up covered in bites and hives.
Turns out sand fleas are very real.
And apparently being buried like a dead body in the sand is one of those father duties nobody warns you about.
A few months earlier, I would’ve been checking the clock.
Wondering when we were leaving.
Wondering if I had enough.
Wondering how long I needed to smile before I could finally go numb again.
But that day?
I wasn’t trying to leave early.
I was sunburned, sandy, overstimulated, finding sand in ridiculous places…
and weirdly wishing we had one more hour.
Because for the first time in a really long time, I was actually there.
Really there.
Not mentally somewhere else.
Not trying to rush through the moment.
Not trying to escape it.
Just there.
Watching my kids get excited over tiny shells.
Laughing while another wave knocked into me.
Watching my husband scratch sand flea bites and still somehow smile through it.
Feeling the chaos.
Feeling the joy.
Actually remembering the moment while it was happening.
Healing hasn’t looked graceful for me.
It’s looked loud and messy and sore and chaotic and honestly kind of ridiculous.
But beautiful too.
Because sometimes recovery isn’t some peaceful perfect moment.
Sometimes it looks like beach bags and sunscreen and kids yelling “Mom.”
Sometimes it looks like swallowing saltwater and laughing harder than you expected.
Sometimes it looks like sand in ridiculous places and wishing the day lasted a little longer.
And sometimes healing is exactly that.
You stop standing on the shore.
You let life hit you a little.
You laugh.
You survive.
You shake sand out of places sand should never be.
And you ride the wave.