White Water Rafting
In my twenties, I went white water rafting in the Ottawa Valley.
Now before I continue, you need to understand something important:
I can’t swim.
And not only can’t I swim — I had almost drowned twice earlier in my life.
So naturally, putting myself into a raging river surrounded by giant rapids sounds like the beginning of a terrible decision.
But at the time, I went with an experienced group, and I told myself:
“They know what they’re doing. We’ll be safe.”
What I didn’t realize was that “experienced” did not mean “careful.”
This group wanted the biggest rapids.
The strongest currents.
The most intense route possible.
Apparently the goal was not survival.
The goal was adrenaline.
And honestly, somewhere deep inside me, I knew this was not my comfort zone.
But one thing about me is this:
I’ve rarely stayed away from challenges.
Even when fear was screaming.
Even when logic questioned it.
Even when my body wanted certainty and safety.
So we went.
And then it happened.
The raft flipped.
One second, six of us were together inside the boat.
The next second, chaos.
Cold water.
Noise.
Disorientation.
Panic.
And suddenly I found myself alone, flowing down the river within seconds of the flip, while everyone else was scattered everywhere around me.
I still remember that feeling.
Not just fear.
Helplessness.
The terrifying realization that the current did not care whether I was ready or not.
The river was moving.
Fast.
And I had no control over it.
It’s strange how certain moments stay frozen in your memory forever. Even decades later, I can still emotionally feel those seconds in my body.
And yet, when I look back now, I realize something important:
That rafting trip was never really about rafting.
It was about my relationship with fear.
Because despite almost drowning before…
despite not knowing how to swim…
despite the danger…
I still showed up.
Not because I was fearless.
But because something in me has always believed life becomes smaller when fear makes all the decisions.
And honestly, that same feeling has returned now with my fringe play.
Creating a fringe show feels emotionally similar to standing before those rapids.
Uncertainty.
Vulnerability.
Risk.
Exposure.
The possibility of failure.
The possibility of embarrassment.
The terrifying awareness that once you begin, there is no perfect control anymore.
You step into the current and hope you find your way through it.
That’s art sometimes.
That’s life sometimes.
People often assume courage feels confident.
But most courage actually feels shaky.
It feels like your stomach tightening while you move forward anyway.
I think many of the meaningful moments in my life came from doing things I wasn’t fully prepared for.
Traveling.
Skydiving.
Performing.
Motorbiking.
Rollercoasting.
Kayaking.
Entrepreneurship.
Opening up emotionally.
Starting over.
Creating.
Healing.
None of them arrived with guarantees.
But maybe guarantees were never the point.
Maybe growth only happens when we occasionally allow ourselves to be carried into uncomfortable waters.
And yes, sometimes life flips the raft.
Sometimes you lose control.
Sometimes you panic.
Sometimes you feel completely overwhelmed.
But maybe courage is realizing:
even after the raft flips…
you’re still in the river.
Still moving.
Still alive.
And maybe the next challenge waiting for us is not proof we’re reckless.
Maybe it’s proof we’re still willing to live.
