Fatigued from three days of surfing but still wanting to learn more, towards the end of our retreat in Costa Rica, I began extending my breaks between sets. When my surf coach asked if I felt ready for another wave, I used my breath as a gauge to give an honest answer.
If I was able to breathe easily into my lower belly I said yes, but if my breath still felt fast and difficult to get lower than my chest, I replied, “I need a few more minutes.”
On the last day, feeling less obsessed with becoming the next Kelly Slater and more willing to enjoy my time with wonderful women and teachers, our coach Martín clapped his hands together and announced I looked ready to learn turning.
I felt the same queasy discomfort that I was beginning to recognize as my brain fearing unrealistic expectations. That maybe after learning to turn, Martín might send me to surf Pipeline, a massive wave in Oahu I only knew from the early 2000’s movie Blue Crush.
“I think you’re ready to try turns,” he repeated to my hesitant grin, putting his lanky arms up in surrender.
“Okay, okay,” I said, leaving anxiety and returning to the present.
“If you press on your toes you’ll go one way, and on your heels you’ll go in the other direction,” our surf coach said.
On my next attempt, when I tried and achieved an unexpectedly sharp left, I laughed with delight as I fell into the water.
For our last dinner together, we went around and all twenty-six women on the retreat shared what they received from our trip and what they planned to take home with them.
As we finished eating and the playlist started that another attendee put together, the space in the middle of the dining room became a dance floor. I felt a surge of joy through my arms remembering my unapologetic middle-school self who bopped around with friends at sleepovers and dances. And here, I could approach any of the women, and they would all welcome me.
The next morning I noticed deep grief, a magnet pulling me to stay in bed over taking the steps to pack and leave. In the van and later while waiting to board our flight, I wondered whether I should really go, or if my body was telling me to stay.
I think I feared I was abandoning myself, a person I was finally growing to love.
For a while, I had been revolving around the idea of getting a yoga certification. Stretching every day since rehab for back surgery showed me the value of starting the day by moving first for myself.
When I stretched on good days, I increased the time I could spend on my feet, writing, and being with loved ones. When I followed my routine on tough days, I more easily thought of how I could help myself or ask others for support. I wanted to do that for the rest of my life, and also help other people find the movements that helped them live.
When I found a training in Puerto Rico with a teacher who also lived with chronic pain, I knew I’d found my next step in the connection and creation of a fulfilling life. As someone whose family is from the island, I felt a deep calling to learn the practice surrounded by the nature my ancestors knew.
As I prepared for the residential training, I went to dinner with a new friend from the NUSHU Surf Retreat who also shared Puerto Rican heritage. Her excitement as I talked made me want to reach out as soon as I got back to see her again.
Going to Costa Rica with NUSHU solidified for me that I could create deep friendships and feel joy, regardless of where I went in the world—that if I arrived with honesty about my needs and compassion for the people who I chose to travel with, chronic pain might still be present, but I could also access fulfillment and love.
Sofia is a writer, NUSHU Facilitator, and Hatha Vinyasa yoga teacher. After earning her masters degree in education she spent nine years teaching in the classroom, until a back injury that placed her on disability. During this time of introspection, rest, and healing, she found NUSHU. Her intention is to lead conversations and experiences that foster connection and self-love. She writes essays about self-advocacy, struggles, and fulfillment with chronic pain. Sofia lives in Puerto Rico and loves swimming, reading, and her robust cat Brooklyn. Check out more of her writing on her Substack, Removing the Smileveil.