Picture this: it’s 5:30 AM, the sky is the colour of regret, and I’m knee-deep in saltwater, questioning all my life choices. Welcome to surfboat rowing—where the only thing colder than the sand in winter is the unspoken competition between teammates over who can hide their exhaustion better. Girl, I know some of you have had Botox to mask it, but you are hurrrrrrting.
I’ve spent the last decade willingly hurling myself into the abyss of early mornings, brutal training sessions, and enough lactic acid build-up to pickle a small village. And yet, I keep coming back for more. Why? Because team sport is my thing—or really, any sport where you get yelled at. From martial arts to football, if there’s sweat and a scoreboard, I’m in. But surfboat rowing? That’s a different beast. It’s where teamwork isn’t optional, where your crew is your lifeline, and where you learn to trust four other lunatics not to capsize you into the shark-infested waters of the Indian Ocean.
I thrive on the pressure—whether it’s from a coach screaming at me to “row harder” (my spleen is already on the floor, thanks) or from opponents who look like they were genetically engineered for this exact moment. The Amazonian women of the sport… ahhh, to be able to look like that. The camaraderie, the shared suffering, the post-race carb-loading where we justify eating and drinking like we’ve survived a famine—it’s all part of the magic.
Now, because I have a particular penchant for overcommitment, I’m doing all of this while raising two small humans and transitioning from my career as an oral health therapist to research. Yes, research. The kind where I have to sound intelligent on paper while battling imposter syndrome so intense that I’m convinced my laptop is judging me.
Imposter syndrome is like an uninvited rowing partner, constantly whispering, “Are you sure you belong here?” To which I reply, “I don’t have time for this existential crisis; I have deadlines, and also, I need to find my kid’s other shoe.”
People ask how I manage everything, and the short answer is: I don’t. I just aggressively tread water while making it look like I’m surfing. I take on too much, say yes to everything, and then somehow (mostly) pull it off. If thriving in chaos were an Olympic sport, I’d be on the podium.
So, will I ever slow down? Probably not. Will I continue to juggle a million things at once while convincing myself I have it all under control? Absolutely. And will I keep getting up at ungodly hours to row a glorified bathtub through angry surf? Without a doubt. Because at the end of the day, I love it. The challenge, the chaos, the camaraderie—it’s what keeps me going. Well, that and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
