July 20th, 2025
In Glennon Doyle’s book Untamed, she introduces the world to a wonderful tool she teaches her children, “We can do hard things.” I easily adopted this as a mantra of my own.
“I can do hard things,” as I enter the cold plunge.
“I can do hard things,” as I step out of the car in the parking lot of the gym to go to my weight training class.
“I can do hard things,” as I tell someone a hard truth.
“I can do hard things,” as I say no.
“I can do hard things,” as I ask for what I require.
The house we have made a home for the last three weeks sits on volcanic rock facing the west side of the island of Kona, Hawaii. Because of this, we have had the most spectacular sunsets. It is not, however, a beach you lounge on. It is at best a rock-scrambling beach with unpredictable surf that constantly carves the coastline into little alluring pools teeming with sea urchins, little fish, and sea turtles.
Down the shoreline, the local boys have a jump in spot. We watched them carefully before trying it ourselves. For me, navigating my way back onto land was enough once. On the other side of our house is a famous snorkel beach with amazing visibility. The gentle and gracious reef of this beach makes this a great spot for learning to surf. It is also a wonderful cove to swim. When Jack arrived, he studied the currents, the reef, and the locals before taking his board out. His trained eyes scan for reef changes in depth and easily spot the bothersome and darkly beautiful sea urchins that camouflage the rocky coast and pierce long needles through your swim shoes.
My big “I can do hard things” this week was not swimming in the open water with a pod of 60 wild dolphins… twice. Their choice to be with us spun me into buoyant joy, as I kept popping up to clear my snorkel from laughter.
Nor was it when I slid gently into the water in over 16,000 feet of glistening blue sea, to lie perfectly still and flat on the surface and witness the bold beauty and holiness of pilot whales as they swam under me in a quiet blessing that felt like a deep acknowledgment of my soul.
Nor did I use “I can do hard things”, when we went night swimming to experience manta rays feasting on plankton. Their 12-foot wingspan and white underbelly barreled inches beneath me as I sang to them. A deep voice soon joined me as Scott and the others realized that when you sang to them, they kept returning. At one point, Scott moved his sore shoulder and rested his arm over my back as we held onto a big board that shone a blue light down under us to invite the mantas to eat, dance, and twirl. I wondered in that moment if they could feel the electric connection between us, if they could feel my heart telling them that my family was out here together to experience their electric beauty.
In all those instances, we were guided. Safe. My body, though thrilled, opened with curiosity.
My true “I can do hard things” moment came when Zoe, Maya, and I committed to a half-mile swim from the front of our beach house out past the surf and into Kahaluʻu Cove. None of us were willing to do it without Jack. At first, Jack didn’t think we needed him. But it was clear that I was not doing it without him. Finally, he grabbed his gear and said, “Let’s go.”
It took us ten minutes to get in the water, with Jack going in first to guide us through the surf and rocks. When it was my turn, he said “go” and I pushed off one rock and slid on my belly, soft yet strong enough to clear the rocks and tide all in one moment.
It took a bit to get the snorkel gear right. Snorkel gear that people leave behind at beach houses sucks. While treading water and waiting for all the adjustments in gear, I made a mental note to buy everyone really good snorkel gear for Christmas. I wore my swim cap and goggles, wanting to free-style swim, not snorkel, Finally, the four of us took off with Scott watching carefully from the rocks and Jack as our guide.
The water was clear. Small fish promised that all was in order under the sea. The light of the five o’clock sun turned the water into glistening blue honey. Jack assured me days ago. that the setting sun is not feeding time for sharks. They eat when they find food. We are not their food of choice, and they are not considered a threat to people here in Hawaii. Instead, they are respected and often met underwater by locals with awe. “Brah, I met up with a tiger shark today, yah, da kine.” There is a huge effort here to reframe sharks and educate people about who and what they really are to the people of Hawaii. Anyone who loves being in the water here hates Shark Week and Jaws. Even so, I kept my eyes out and used the extra adrenaline to kick and reach.
About a third of the way into the swim, we hit the reef. A gentle wave set rolled in, pulling me sideways. I glanced up to see a wave about to barrel over me and dove through easily, watching the water churn white. When I came up I yelled, “Jack!” The way I do when he is in trouble for doing something daring.
“It’s ok, Mamma.. these are little waves. You see that palm tree out there. Head out there.
I kept going. Wave after wave pulled me toward it. At one point I yelled out “Dive!” to the others. I came up to Jack laughing. “Mom! These are only 1 foot waves, at any point you can stand. It is only 4 feet deep at most.”
I found that hard to believe. I was at least ½ mile out from coast. Ok maybe ¼ of a mile.
From the shore all Scott saw was that we were heading out to sea. In the distance, I saw a surfer or two. This assured me that if I really needed help, I could get to the edge of their boards. Finally, the reef dropped down and Jack instructed that it was safe to head to shore.
“Keep your eye on the lifeguard stand”.
My arms had grown a bit weary. I flipped on my back and floated, trying to flush the cortisol out of my system. I reminded myself I was safe, I looked at the beauty all around me, I dropped into gratitude. I promised myself that I was three-fourths of the way there. I reminded myself that I would be craving this again in just a few days as I watered my garden, or flipped the laundry. I looked to the shore and noticed that Scott had driven to the beach and still had his eye on us. My hero was waiting with dry towels. I pointed my swim cap and reached for him, one big scoop of sea at a time.
When I finally felt the rocks scraping at my knees, I stayed prone, careful of sea urchins. A little wave came and awkwardly pushed me up onto the shore like a beached seal. My suit was twisted, hair plastered, my goggles askew. I had made it. Scott clapped and laughed, “You did it! You did it!”.
Ten years ago, I trained for the Columbia, MD triathlon. I practiced my 400-yard swim in pools and bays, biked the 10 miles required up and down the hills at Loch Raven, jogged 3 miles, with the promise that I could always walk that part if needed. When the day came, I was very confident about the swim despite my horrendous one-piece tri suit. What I didn’t expect: being swum over three times at the start. I swallowed pond water, choked, side-stroked, and couldn’t regain composure. I tried to recover. After several meters, it was clear that I was not going to get my bearings. A boat came over, hauled my laden body out of the water. I was the first out of 2,000 participants to quit. While in the boat, I tried to talk, tried to catch my breath, but unbeknownst to me, I had aspirated a lung. I can still feel the hot shame to this day. It was my “agony of defeat” moment; there was no “thrill of victory” or arms up at the finish line, no shiny round metal around my neck.
I ended my day instead with a hot shower and a long cry curled up in bed while Scott wrapped his arms around me, urging me to breath and be gentle with my lungs. The kids piled in. “I am such a loser!” I sadly indulged…” One by one, they hugged me close. To this day, not one of them has ever made a joke about that day. Instead, they have held me safe in the memory and let my shame move out of my system in due time, along with the pond scum. Although it was a hard moment, I took something in on a very deep level that day. In a family of intense, competitive athletes, I had nothing to prove.
So this swim is a quiet victory. I kept my strokes even, dove when I had to, floated, and even enjoyed all the yellow little Lau ipala fish that joined me along the way. In the end, I am stronger for it. Today I am a little sore, but “I can do hard things” holds a little more power because I jumped in, trusted, kept going, and made it home.
