There’s something ironic about sunbaking in the shade but that’s exactly where you’ll find me.
I’m usually tucked under the edge of a beach umbrella with my walking frame parked beside me, both of us deserving a rest.
In front of me I watch the ocean stretch out in shimmering blues. I see my family snorkeling behind the waves, dipping in and out and calling to each other with joys they’ve seen below.
Once upon a time, I might have been out there with them. And since my stroke, I tried once or twice. But now, I understand the effort it takes to join them. The planning, the physical toll, and the recovery required afterwards that today, I choose to simple watch.
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
That choice, I see not as giving up, but a quiet kind of wisdom. Sitting still offers something that movement often steals from me. My vision settles when I’m not navigating steps or shifting balance. If I’m walking, I’m concentrating. If I’m standing, especially on soft sand, I’m negotiating every tiny instability beneath me.
In that moment on the beach, I decided to be seated and grounded so that I could actually watch and see. I saw the colours settle into clarity and the moment expand.
It’s not effortless, though. Even rest has its challenges. The sun lounge built for comfort feels awkward and unforgiving, so instead I chose the uneven and grainy sand to settle in.
I lay there feeling the earth beneath me and finding my version of comfort. When the wind picked up, whipping fine grains of sand into the air, I caught myself instinctively shielding my eye. I was cautious of irritation and of what even a small setback could mean to my eye. These are the background calculations and the quiet vigilance that never fully switch off for me.
But still, it’s so beautiful to be able to watch my family glide through the water and hear their laughter. I feel both the distance and the connection.
It’s a strange space to hold, grief for what was, and gratitude for what is. I am learning that not doing something doesn’t mean missing out entirely. It just means experiencing it differently. I’m still here, still part of it, and still choosing how I show up. It is hard not to let my disability dictate everything, and that tension sits with me daily, but moments like this remind me that it doesn’t get to take all the space.
There is still choice, there is still presence, and there is still joy even when I’m just sitting in the shade.