Rip currents are dangerous.
As of 2022, they cause an average of 71 deaths per year in the United States, and they are the leading cause of beach lifeguard rescues.
Flowing at speeds up to 2.5 m/s (8.2 ft/s) — faster than virtually any human can swim — rip currents can pull you away from the shore and prevent you from swimming directly against it.
Yet they are not difficult to escape.
To survive, you have two choices:
Swim parallel to the shoreline, which allows you to get out of the current
Relax and either float or tread water until the current pulls you beyond the surf line, where it then dissipates and allows you to swim back (diagonally, away from the rip and towards the shore)
In short, rip currents are dangerous because we try to swim against the current — fighting a losing battle — and all we have to do is relax and move with the flow of energy.
For my birthday (February 28), I reflect on the past year — a turbulent ride that left me exposed in open water.
In April of 2022, I lost my mom. That was when the rip current formed.
Imagine:
It’s a Friday morning. You get a phone call telling you that your mom has a terminal disease and requires emergency surgery. In an instant, your life changes.
The rip current accelerated, and I was pulled out towards the open ocean. It all happened so suddenly. So unexpectedly.
“Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.”
-Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
On February 28th, 2022 — my birthday and two months before I’d lose my mom — she forgot to call me. She never forgot to call. In fact, she was always the first. Her call would wake me. Her voice would reach me like the rising sun.
This time, she forgot to call. That was a warning sign that she was no longer herself. The sign was right in front of me, and I didn’t see it. I didn’t understand it.
2022 was a difficult year. The rip current formed and pulled me away from the shore. After losing my mom, I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel joy. I was marooned at sea.
But 2023 would bring forth a new challenge.
In a rip current, inexperienced swimmers drown because they fight the waves. They grow tired and lack the strength to keep their heads above water.
In 2023, I, too, felt like I was drowning. I fought against my mom’s absence. I fought against my grief. I fought against the unending, unrelenting pain and sadness.
I fought. And I kicked. And I screamed.
And I lost.
I drowned.
This past year, I tried swimming directly into the current. I believed in myself. I believed in my resolve. I believed in my ability to navigate the unimaginable.
I believed, in my heart of hearts, that I would swim back to the shore. That I would find joy. That I would make peace with the cycles of life.
And I lost. I drowned.
“We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.”
-Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking [emphasis added]
I drowned because I did not accept the flow of energy coming at me. I did not accept the pain that it would bring.
I drowned because, upon losing my mom, it brought to the surface a number of questions:
If she’s no longer here, am I still my mother’s son?
In my greatest moments of need, to whom will I turn?
Where will I feel safe?
What did her life mean? What about mine?
And does any of this matter?
The current pulls you out, and you panic.
The farther out the current takes you, the darker and colder the water gets. You feel unsafe. Survival instincts kick in. You swim back. You fight.
And, inevitably, like so many victims of grief before you, you drown.
In 2022, I was pulled out into open water. Chaos and confusion ensued.
In 2023, I fought valiantly against the forces (and laws) of nature. And I didn’t get any closer to the shore.
In 2024, I am ready to embrace the flow.
“I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead. ”
-Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking [emphasis added]
I tried to keep my mom here. I tried to keep my life normal.
But that’s not how it works.
There is pain. There is sadness. And then there is help.
You can swim parallel to the shore, or relax and let the flow take you to its natural end.
I started going to therapy. I not only grieved, but (especially after holding a memorial service for my mom and grandmother) I gave myself space to mourn.
To mourn is an intentional act. While grief can hit like a wave — or rip current — mourning is a vulnerable, courageous choice to surrender.
I surrendered to the truth. To the truth of my loss. To the loss of innocence. The loss of future birthday calls that will no longer wake me from my dreams.
I surrendered.
I surrender.
We all experience loss. The loss of a loved one. An unrequited love that devastates us. A job that once provided security is swiftly taken away.
We are pulled far from shore. We lose control. Panic and stress consume us. And, frantically, we fight for our lives.
We have all been there. Some of us are there now. Some of us will be there soon.
Know that you are not alone. Know that it will be difficult. Know that you will struggle.
Just relax.
Float.
Observe the current’s flow.
Don’t resist. Don’t fight it.
Instead, surrender.
Let it take you where it must.
In time, you will make your way back to the shore.