Water has always been my refuge. From the time I was a child growing up in Alameda, California—an island nestled in the heart of the San Francisco Bay—I felt an undeniable connection to the sea. Most days, you could find me near the shore, my toes buried in the cool, wet sand, or at the local swimming pool, diving beneath the surface and imagining a world where I never had to come up for air.
My mother recognized this love early on, enrolling me in swimming lessons after catching me in a child’s pool, twirling through the water with a long skirt billowing around me. I wasn’t just playing—I was becoming a mermaid. Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around the water, the rhythmic crashing of waves, and the beaches I still miss with all my heart.
The Currents Shift
Years later, I found myself in the water again, but for very different reasons. This time, it wasn’t for play but for healing. Life has a way of changing course in an instant—one wrong moment, one unexpected turn, and everything shifts. For me, it was a car that crossed my path at the worst possible time. And then, years later, lightning flashed, my horse reared, and I was thrown to the ground. At the time, I brushed off the incidents, not realizing the toll they had taken. The damage remained dormant for years until, one day, the pain became a constant companion—one I could no longer ignore.
Chronic pain is a thief. It sneaks in and steals the life you once knew, leaving you to navigate a new reality. The activities I once loved—hiking, biking, riding horses, camping—slowly became impossible. Even the simplest of tasks, like washing dishes or vacuuming, became battles I didn’t always have the strength to fight.
For years, I tried different pain medications, searching for relief. Some dulled the pain but left me in a fog, while others only created more problems. Eventually, I stepped away from them, choosing to face the pain head-on, though the exhaustion it brought was relentless.
Drifting Between Two Worlds
Before the pain, my life was spectacular. I was active, always moving, always pushing forward. Year-round, I lifted weights four days a week. Summers were spent swimming daily, my body strong and free. In the fall and spring, I rode my mountain bike, and in the winter, I trained on the treadmill. I thrived in the outdoors, finding adventure in every season.
After the pain, my world shrank. Gardening became difficult. Photography—one of my great passions—was now a struggle, as my body no longer allowed me to trek deep into nature for the perfect shot. My social life dwindled; after long days at work, I was too exhausted to go out, and weekends became a time for rest rather than adventure.
I had always been a social butterfly, fluttering from one event to the next, but pain forced me to slow down. At first, I resented it. But in time, I began to see the gift in the stillness.
A New Tide
Though my world looks different now, I have discovered something profound: the unwavering love of those who remain. Family and friends who see me beyond the pain. Those who offer kindness and understanding, who stand by my side through the hard days and celebrate the good ones. Their support is a lifeline, keeping me afloat even when the waves threaten to pull me under.
And despite it all, I still have more good days than bad.
I still find joy in the water.
My young grandson, Connor, once looked at me with wide, innocent eyes and declared, “You play good in the water.” His simple observation was a reminder that while pain has changed parts of my life, it has not taken everything. I may not be able to hike or ride like I once did, but in the water, I am free.
If only all activities could take place in the pool.
Perhaps, in another life, I really was a mermaid!
Tales of a Family 