The Waves
For mental health awareness, we can start by naming the emotions that come for our children.
Photo by Julie Miley Schlegel of the surfers off the Huntington Beach pier
In March, we traveled to California. On the drive to our vacation rental, we stopped at Huntington Beach for lunch and to pass a few hours until we could check in. There was a pier stretching out into the water and perfect weather, so we went for a walk.
Halfway down the pier, we saw a group of surfers in the ocean below, sitting on their boards. I’ve never tried surfing, so I write this article as a lowly observer, but even I could tell these humans, in their wetsuits, were regulars.
There were multiple surfers in the water. Mostly sitting on their boards, they rose and fell with the swells of water. They laughed and talked amongst themselves, an unofficial therapy session in the sea.
Every few minutes, the surfers would recognize something in the ocean that told them a surfable wave was coming. The surfer who was at just the right spot as the wave broke would stand up and ride the wave as long as it carried him.
The others would patiently wait for their own chance. Sometimes they would paddle to another space, reading the sea and its moods, hoping to catch their own ride as the sea gulls called out above. The rhythmic sounds of the ocean soothed my own mood as I watched.
Over time, I tried to guess which wave they would ride. I would see a larger swell, guess that it would crest in the right place, watch the surfers to see that I was right. What looked like a big wave to me would surely be a happy ride for them.
But most of the time, I was wrong. These big waves, deemed surfable by someone who’s never surfed, would trigger a different behavior in the surfers. Instead of standing on their boards to ride, they would point their boards perpendicular to the incoming swell and lower their heads into the water, curving the upper half of their bodies like dolphins.
Instead of standing up to conquer those waves, they surrendered to them. They didn’t try to fight them. They didn’t paddle away. They didn’t let the water smack them in the face or knock them off their boards. They dove into the wave and let it wash over them, feeling every drop of water encase their bodies.
They held their breath while the weight of the water passed over them. When the big-but-not-surfable wave passed, they rose to the surface again and took a breath. They knew from experience that the weight of the water would pass, that they would rise to the surface again.
I’ve been thinking about these surfers since I returned home, about how the waves with which they danced are much like waves of emotion we all feel.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you will know that the mental health of our children and teens is not OK. The adolescents are struggling, and so are the young adults. Not all of them all at once — maybe your child is riding a good wave for now. If so, be thankful for it.
I don’t know how to fix the mental health crisis. The problem feels too big to tackle at times, and every week I hear the story of another young person who is struggling. Several people I know are riding or dodging or diving into huge waves of their own grief this year.
Our emotions are like the waves that come in from the ocean and crash into land. There is nothing that will stop them from coming, no matter how we try to avoid them. If we turn our backs to them, they will still come. If we deny they exist, they will still crash into us and knock us off our feet.
I love the Irish Celtic saying “ta bron orm,” which I have read means “sadness is on me.” When I’m having big emotions (as I’m prone to do), I have started to borrow this Irish phrase and extrapolate it to other emotions I feel.
If sadness is on me, not within me, it is not me. It’s not everything I am, as in “I am sad,” and it doesn’t consume me. If sadness is on me, I can dive head-first into it and let it wash over me. I can allow sadness that is on me to temporarily weigh me down, like the surfers diving into the big waves. I must let myself feel it. I can dive in and wait until I can breathe again.
If despair is on me, I will allow myself to feel it. Sometimes saying, “Anxiety is on me,” or “Fear is on me,” helps me to process these emotions so they can pass. When frustration is on me, it will be temporary. Same with anger. Jealousy. Resentment. I can dive in and wait until I can breathe again.
When happiness and joy are on me, I will stand up and ride the wave to the sand, wind in my hair, water splashing in my face. I will ride it as long as I can, and when the ride is done, I will paddle back out into the sea of my life. There I will wait for whatever waves come.
I am trying to teach my kids and patients to notice all of these emotions. Notice the waves. Name them. Dive into them, and when they pass, come up for air again. It’s not going to save every person who is struggling. I have been practicing pediatrics long enough to know that some of the carefree toddlers and young children I see will hit a mental health crisis within a few years. But I want them to know I am here for it. All we can really do is sit on our boards, be present for each other, and love each other through whatever waves come.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out for help.
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.