There was a time when the beach meant complete freedom to me. Hot sand under my bare feet, running across the dunes without a second thought, and feeling the earth shift and sink beneath me as I moved effortlessly toward the water. The ocean was never something I had to get to, it was just there.
Now, it’s different. Since my stroke, something as simple as walking on the beach has become layered with challenges most people will never have to consider.
I can’t run anymore. I have to wear shoes for stability, and because I can’t feel temperature properly on my left side, the sand is now something I have to be cautious of. The soft, uneven ground that used to feel playful now turns into resistance, making each step feel heavier than the last. Then there’s the walking frame. Honestly, just the thought of pushing it over soft sand is exhausting. The wheels sink, the effort multiplies, and what used to be a carefree wander becomes a task that requires intense planning, energy, and determination.
I write in my book:
I’m sitting in a comfy brown recliner overlooking the ocean. This spot is sheltered from the pesky March flies I can no longer swat, away from the hot sand that I can’t run over, and the itchy heat that triggers my pain. Here I am safe. Safe, but distant. Detached. I feel smothered by dependency.
Reinventing Emma, page 171
And still, I go. Because once I’m there, something shifts. The sound of the waves, the fresh, salty air, and the vastness of the ocean provide a sense of peace. Even with my warped vision, I can still feel the relaxing nature of being by the ocean. It is therapeutic in a way that’s hard to put into words; it’s grounding, freeing, and a reminder that while things have changed, they haven’t disappeared. I can still do this.
I also don’t do it alone. Today, my mum carried my walking frame over the soft sand so I didn’t have to push it. Such a simple act on the surface changed everything. It meant I could conserve my energy and actually enjoy the experience instead of battling through it.
Life after stroke is full of these moments where the gap between what was and what is feels wide, but it’s also full of people who step in to help bridge that gap. Life is challenging, but it’s incredible how much lighter those challenges become when someone walks beside you. In my case, carried what I couldn’t.
Because of that support, I’m still on the beach, still by the ocean, and still part of the world I love.