A moment that changed me: Alone on a river, I sobbed with pain – and resolved to live a big life

I looked around and dropped my paddle on my wetsuit-clad lap. Small waves lapped against my kayak, reeds swayed on the riverbank, clouds shot across the sky. All I heard were rustling leaves and the occasional goose honk. There was not a person in sight.

Earlier I had been sitting in my car next to the river in Yarmouth, gripping the steering wheel and gritting my teeth against the pressure that had built up in my head since I had seen that the tide and wind conditions were perfect for a solo kayak. Inside me were two Annas. One loved kayaking and couldn’t wait to get on the water. The other desperately wanted to go home and curl up under a blanket where it was safe.

Living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) means there are often two conflicting voices in my head. One tells me it doesn’t matter what I eat for lunch, while the other is desperately afraid of making the wrong choice. Some people like to read in bed before going to sleep, others want to stay up as late as possible watching TV to avoid nightmares. My brain has been programmed by traumatic experiences from my past to protect me, which unfortunately it does by identifying danger in situations where there is no danger.

“You’ll enjoy this,” I told myself, fighting back tears in my eyes. “I promise.”

Doing things quickly helps take the fear out of making decisions, so I threw myself out of the car and tried to lose myself in the mechanics of getting ready to hit the water: inflating my kayak, testing whether my life jacket is tight enough sat, putting together my paddle. All the while I was repeating the mantra to myself that I would enjoy this. One part of me knew it was true, while the other couldn’t shake the all-consuming fear that something terrible would happen if I didn’t go home right away.

Without giving myself a moment to think, I pulled my kayak onto my hip and walked to the river. I jumped in and paddled away from the shallow water, passing boats and families of geese. I paddled hard, willing the fear to disappear as I did my best to cut through the water as smoothly and quickly as possible.

That day in 2022, as I told myself over and over again that I loved what I was doing, despite the alarm bells ringing in my head, I found myself alone on a long stretch of river.

There’s always something peaceful about being on the water, even when I’m on the water with friends or watching my dog ​​chase a ball. But there’s something different about floating alone on a river. I stopped paddling. I rested my sore arms. I looked around at the still water and the fields in the distance. The wind blew through my hair as I took a deep breath and loosened my chest.

I didn’t consciously choose to cry. Despite the storms raging inside me, I’m pretty good at suppressing my emotions until I’m in a safe place to express them. I like to be in control.

Yet something in the solitude the river offered me that day broke through those fortified defenses. Tears streamed down my face and my chest shook with sobs. All the fight I had carried with me, that it had taken to get me on the water, left me. I felt the sadness of living with PTSD. It’s cruel and difficult. It’s not fair. It’s so incredibly tiring.

Alone on that river I screamed out the pain of the daily struggle to do simple things that other people didn’t think about for a second. I let out the frustration that I had a mind working against me, so desperate to protect me that sometimes it didn’t want me to do anything at all. I was deeply sad, but even as I cried, I was so grateful to be there on the river.

Mental health recovery is often a beautiful balancing act between pushing my limits to expand my capabilities and having compassion for myself, so taking a step back when necessary. Somehow that moment on the river was a beautiful blend of the two. I had fought to get there, resisted my fears, and found a moment in nature where I could take care of myself and release some of the deep pain I was carrying.

I don’t want my life to be small, and big moments like sitting alone on the river, after the struggle to get there, remind me that my life can be anything I want it to be.

Sitting on my kayak I felt brave. When you’re filled with fear every day, it can be strange to feel brave. It takes courage to stand up to our fears, but there’s always a little voice in my head telling me that it can’t really be considered courage if you do things that other people don’t even think about. But that lonely moment was different. I had done something that other people would find challenging or even scary. I had been objectively brave.

I won’t pretend that I was magically cured of PTSD from that day on. Unfortunately, it’s something I struggle with every day. I have good times and bad times. In the more difficult moments, I think back to crying in my kayak on the river. I was strong enough to get myself there, and kind enough to take care of myself too. I use it as a tangible example when I’m struggling. I can be strong and kind. I can be more than my fear.

Shot in the Dark by Anna Britton is published by Canelo (£9.99)