By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann

My arms extend, but flex and grip a ten-inch bar wrapped in foam. It’s attached to a rope, now taut, and tied to the back of an idling boat. My feet plant upright on a fiberglass board, perpendicular to the surface of the water—or as perpendicular as one can get while also bobbing up and down and being pulled forward slowly while wearing a life vest inching up one’s neck.   

The day before, out on a lake with family friends, my kids and husband had tried a new-to-us water sport. One by one, they’d all put on vests, jumped in, and pushed against a thin board as the boat accelerated. Each time, they tried to stand and balance, hold and pull. But no one really ‘got it.’ And that’s normal. I remember learning to water ski with friends when I was young, and how many tries it took me to stand. You have to get a feel for the water and the movement, the rhythm of the effort. That is, if you don’t give up altogether, first. 

Later that evening, in the privacy of our bedroom, there was a space in my chest that felt hollow. I looked down at the floor. “I wanted to try,” I confessed in a quiet voice to my husband.  

“Wake surfing?” he asked.

“Yeah.” 

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

“I don’t know.” And I truly didn't. I hadn't worked that out yet. Part of me wanted to make sure everyone else got their turn, and part of me waited to be encouraged—like a kid. And then there was the part of me that was simply afraid. Afraid to put forth the effort of being bad at  something I’d likely not get on the first, second, third attempt—or even the fourth, fifth, or sixth. 

Was I strong enough? Coordinated enough? Capable enough? 

If this were twenty, even ten years ago, the answer would be an emphatic yes. But now?At my age, with multiple surgeries in the past two years that have affected my strength—mentally and physically?  I’m not so sure. We slid into bed, our warmth finding each other. And I wondered, if given the chance again, would I be willing to try? 

***

On the blacktop, my husband crouches over, his hand gripping the back of my daughter’s bike seat. We’re in an empty parking lot and she sits balanced with her feet resting on two pedals. “You ready?” he asks. 

She’s ready. She’s been cruising up and down our sidewalk with the training wheels barely touching the cement for weeks. But now? With the threat of falling? Her eyebrows furrow and she doesn’t answer. “I got you,” he assures. Helmet on, she nods, then pushes a leg down. As a unit, they begin to move forward. 

But within just a few feet, her balance shifts and she shoves her right arm forward, then—instinctively correcting herself—her left, then her right again, left, right, left, until her front wheel turns back and forth so violently, my husband grabs both the seat and the handlebars and slows her to a nice even stop. Her eyes are wide, and her hands turn white from the strength of her grip. I can almost see her heart racing. We all take a deep, even breath. 

No one learns how to ride a bike without first being off balance.  

Not one of us learns to walk before pulling ourselves up then plopping down over and over for weeks at a time. And only then, do we take those first tentative, precarious steps.

Why then, as an adult, do I expect myself to enter into so many new experiences running? Why do I avoid circumstances that force me into unbalance? Why do I so often tell myself ‘I can’t do it’ unless I can do it strong? 

“You ready to try again?” my husband asks. With a serious face, my daughter nods. Then she pushes down and tries again.  

***

A resume template waits patiently on my computer. I’ve had a job search tab open for weeks. I’m either too qualified or absolutely underqualfied; wanting to work more hours or shocked by the demands of pretty much everything I’ve found. Do I pivot? Follow my heart? Go back to what I know? Be practical? Be ambitious? 

Regardless, in every scenario, I’m new. 

I share all my angst with a friend and she asks, “How long has it been?” referring to when I ‘stepped away’ from my last formal job. I don’t know why I can’t say “quit”—when I quit my job. I just know I ‘stepped away’ because I needed to, at a time when I could. 

“Um,” I reply, calculating the years in my head. The number tallies to an answer which is not like leaving a dance floor to catch my breath, but more like leaving the party all together. “It’s been a while,” I say.  

She nods and smiles, as if understanding me exactly. Because she knows the real truth: I’m scared of what re-entering the workforce will look like. How will it affect my family? Who is going to stay home if one of the kids gets sick? And even deeper than all that: is it okay if I am not immediately steady and confident and strong? Can I move forward even if it’s awkward and weak and wobbly?

Why, why, why—or maybe the question is when, when, when—did I get so scared of the feeling of being a beginner? 

***

I’m in the backseat, next to my just-ounces-over-five-pounds baby harnessed into what currently looks like the largest carseat in the universe. My husband is at the wheel driving us home from the hospital. My arms are weightless and my heart is a helium balloon. If the window opens, there’s an excellent chance I’ll float out and up into the sky, never to be seen again. 

Before we enter our neighborhood, I start crying. The hormonal tears will start in earnest later, but this? This is an overwhelming sense of gratitude. A depth of joy I’ve never known before. 

But it is also fear: I do not know how to be a mother. I do not know if I can bear the weight of this responsibility. 

In the coming days, weeks, months, I will write down the minutes this child nurses on a small notecard next to a chair. Half asleep, I will unclasp and reattach a small safety pin from side to side of my bra. I will weigh diapers. I will pack what feels like thousands of them into a bag, with extra clothes, pacifiers, toys, the nasal bulb thing, and a nursing cover for even so much as a walk around the block. Just in case. Just in case.

I will worry. Second guess. Seek advice. Change my mind. 

I will be unsteady. Unsure. Shaky. And it will be a full year before I realize I am actually finding my footing, actually solidifying in this new experience of motherhood.  

***

There’s a faint scent of incense and the room is dark and warm. Dim wall sconces, a candle, and the instructor’s voice offer all the light we need. I’m new here, so I set my mat up in the back corner, hoping to participate but blend. 

In the last third of the class, and my arm extends from my shoulder to where my palm is planted on the floor. My feet are out and away, diagonal from my head. (I believe we call this a side plank?) No more than five seconds into the pose, my arm starts to shake, and pretty quickly my whole body, literally, visibly joins in.  

The instructor must see me. From the front of the room, she stands and declares with such kindness, in such a confident and encouraging voice, “You have all the permission to be wobbly.” 

Wobbly. 

My arm feels like crying, like breaking. But her words nudge my heart into place, as if it’s found its home. 

Is that all I needed? To name what I’m feeling inside? 

To know it is okay to be this old and still shake? To not have every facet of my life figured out quite yet? 

***

The next day we’re back on the boat. 

“Who’s next?” the driver asks. I raise my hand. 

I watch my kids’ heads all whip around, their eyebrows crooked, lips half smiling—excited but also unsure. Is Mom allowed? 

I am so confident that I will not be able to pull myself up to standing. But I’m learning to listen to what I want. And I really want to try. I secure the life vest, then without hesitation, jump off the back of the boat.

My skin prickles with the recognition of myself.

Arms out, spitting water, I release the death-grip on the rope handle and give the boat a quick thumbs up. I nod my head, readjusting my hands. “Ready!” I yell, though I’m not. And are we ever? I am off balance, yet as balanced as I can be; I am uncomfortable, but also so at ease in the water.

Will I get up? I don’t know yet. 

Instead, I shake—though not from fear—but from all the potential this one moment holds. 

Sonya Spillmann lives in the DC area with her husband and four kids. She is a staff writer for Coffee + Crumbs and also writes on her blog. You can sign up for her newsletter and listen to her and Adrienne on the Exhale podcast every month.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.