What the Ocean Reminds Me
When I go to the beach, I’m reminded that some things are simply bigger than me. The sound, the movement, the vastness of it all puts things in perspective. I can swim. I can read the tides. But I could never control them. The ocean moves how it moves.
That reminder brings a quiet kind of comfort. Especially when I find myself tangled in thoughts, trying to make sense of someone else’s healing or my own. The ocean doesn’t respond to pressure. It doesn’t speed up because I want answers. It invites me to let go of urgency and allow things to unfold in their own time.
There’s a kind of humility in sitting with something so vast. The ocean doesn’t ask for my opinion. It doesn’t bend to my will. And yet, it offers something back. The thoughts that feel so loud in my head begin to quiet. The pressure to figure it all out starts to loosen. I don’t have to be the one holding everything together.
When I’m given the opportunity, I stay for a long time. I’m usually one of the first to arrive and the last to leave. There’s something about those hours—quiet, unhurried, stretched out with the tide—that I need. I sit. I watch. I listen. And slowly, the noise inside me settles. I don’t feel fixed, but I feel more steady. More willing to be where I am.
I’ve learned not to expect clarity to come all at once. Sometimes it shows up as a little more breath in my chest or a bit more patience. Other times, it’s simply the absence of panic. The slow return of perspective. I don’t always notice the shift until later, when I look back and realize how differently I was seeing things by the end of the day.
Before I leave, I almost always search for seashells. I’ve been doing that for years. I’ve collected them from beaches near and far—some whole, some chipped, most imperfect. But each one felt worth picking up. I keep them in a large bowl at home, a quiet collection of small reminders. Each shell holds the memory of a day I gave myself space. Not to solve anything, but to breathe. To feel. To remember that time can hold me, even when answers don’t come.
That bowl means more to me than most people would guess. On hard days, I’ll reach for a shell and hold it in my hand. There’s something grounding in the texture, the weight, the way it fits in my palm. It reminds me of everything I can’t rush and everything that has already shifted without being forced.
When someone you love is in recovery, the waiting can feel endless. You want movement. You want clarity. You want signs that they are safe and growing and that things will finally be okay. I know that longing. But the ocean reminds me that I am not in charge of the tide or someone else’s timeline. What I can do is tend to my own heart. I can listen more than I speak. I can soften instead of gripping tightly.
That shift from controlling to trusting doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a practice I return to often, especially when fear creeps back in. I remind myself that loving someone in recovery means standing beside them, not in front of them. It means believing that healing can happen even when I can’t see it yet.
Healing asks for room. It asks for breath. And it asks for time—more than we expect, more than we want. But it comes. Quietly. Slowly. In softened thoughts. In steadier breaths. In the small, imperfect shells we carry home after staying long enough to notice.
