The sea has always felt sacred to me. Not in a stained-glass or holy-water kind of way, but in the way it hushes everything else. The way your mind slows down just watching the waves do their thing. The way the air smells like salt and possibility. It’s one of the only places where I actually feel still.
I tried to join the Navy once. True story. Fresh out of high school, heart set on the water. It wasn’t about battle strategy or becoming some kind of action hero. I just wanted to play in the naval band and go to college. It seemed like the perfect plan—serve, make music, and have college paid for. I had this whole scene in my head: me, in uniform, playing a clarinet solo with wind in my face and purpose in my chest. And hey, I wouldn’t have to figure out student loans.
But the Navy took one look at my medical history and said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” I didn’t even make it past the first round. At the time, it felt like a full-body rejection. Not just of a plan, but of a dream. I remember walking out of that recruiting meeting trying to act casual. Like, “Oh well, I didn’t really want that anyway.” But inside, I was crushed.
What I didn’t realize then was that the dream wasn’t just about music or school. It was about longing. Longing for structure. Longing for clarity. Longing to be part of something where I knew what was expected of me and what I could expect in return. I wanted direction. I wanted a North Star. Even though I never made it into uniform, my soul never stopped leaning toward the shore.
Photo by Sean Oulashin on Unsplash
Every now and then, I get to spend time near the water. And when I do, it’s like everything just shifts back into alignment. I sit and watch the boats do their thing—sails adjusting, bows dipping and rising, anchors dropping and lifting. There’s this quiet choreography that happens, this unspoken dance between the vessels and the wind and the tide. It’s calming. It’s humbling. It’s like the sea is saying, “Slow down. Watch. Feel.”
There’s this quote I can’t get out of my head: “A rising tide lifts all boats.” It’s been used for everything from economic policies to bumper stickers, but when I strip it down to just the physical truth of it, it hits differently. Water doesn’t pick favorites. It doesn’t just lift the shiny yachts and ignore the leaky rafts. When the tide rises, everything in it rises too.
That truth has saved me more times than I can count.
Because there are days—maybe seasons—when I start looking around. I see people who seem to have it all together. People gliding along in what look like handcrafted, meticulously varnished vessels. The kind with backup motors and decorative anchors and matching deck shoes. I scroll past their lives in neat little squares, and I start doubting mine.
Some seasons, I feel like I’m captaining a confident, capable vessel. I’ve got momentum, a plan, and maybe even snacks for the trip. But other seasons? Other seasons feel like I’m clinging to a makeshift floating door, à la Titanic, held together by leftover ambition and caffeinated prayers. Just hoping there’s room for one more soul to cling on. Hoping I don’t lose my grip. Hoping no one notices I’ve been paddling in circles for months.
But you know what? That tide still lifts me. And it lifts you. And it lifts the people we’re tempted to envy or ignore or quietly measure ourselves against. It lifts us all. Even the boats that don’t seem to deserve it. Even the ones that made navigational errors or drifted off course. Even the ones that forgot to pack a life vest.
Here’s what’s really struck me lately.
We don’t just ride the tide.
We are the tide.
I know, I know. That sounds like one of those feel-good phrases you’d find embroidered on a decorative pillow in a beach house that smells like sunscreen and mildew. But stay with me.
We get to be the thing that lifts others.
That changes the waterline.
That shows up and says, “I see you drifting. I’ve been there too. Let me stay beside you until your anchor sets.”
We are the tide. We rise, we lift, and when the moment calls, we return.
Let’s be real, though—not every day is high tide. Some days, it’s all sea foam and sunshine, and other days? It’s low tide, baby. Rocks everywhere. Crabs clicking side-eyes at you. You’re walking through seaweed barefoot, wondering why everything suddenly feels exposed and slimy.
But here’s the thing: the tide doesn’t stay low forever. It always shifts. It always comes back in. Just because the waterline pulled away doesn’t mean you’re sinking—it means you’re in a season of waiting, resting, rebuilding. Maybe you’re being handed a tide chart and hearing, “Trust the rhythm. Not everything is meant to be rushed.”
You’re still afloat. Still worthy. Still in motion, even if the dock feels far away.
I’ve had seasons where I felt like I set out to sea without any of the right tools. No map. No compass. No radio. Not even a granola bar. Just me, a vague sense of direction, and waves that didn’t care one bit about my timeline or plans. You know the feeling? Like you’re supposed to know what you’re doing, but secretly you’re one wave away from capsizing and completely losing it?
There was a stretch of time, not that long ago, when I felt like I was on a boat called “Good Intentions” with no paddles. Everything was uncertain. My confidence, my calling, my purpose. I kept smiling and waving from the deck, but below, I was frantically trying to patch the cracks with duct tape and optimism. The world doesn’t exactly give you a break when you’re trying to figure things out. Life keeps coming—emails, bills, hard conversations, delayed dreams, disappointments that feel too familiar. And the water keeps rising.
What saved me, again and again, were the other boats. The ones who circled back for me. The people who noticed when I went quiet. The ones who didn’t need me to explain or perform. They just paddled alongside me until I felt strong enough to row again.
We forget that part. We get so focused on staying afloat that we miss the ones trying to help. Or we assume we have to figure it all out alone because we’re supposed to be strong, or seasoned, or self-sufficient. But maybe being strong looks more like saying, “Can you help me patch this leak?” and less like white-knuckling the oars while pretending everything’s fine.
You don’t need to be the most seaworthy boat in the harbor to offer help. You just need to be willing to show up. And sometimes showing up means knowing when to drift out with the current—because tides move. We lift when we can, we stick around as long as it’s healthy, and when it’s time, we pull back so the next tide can do its work.
So here’s what I want to say to you, friend.
You are not drifting.
You are not alone.
You are not behind.
You may feel like your boat is barely holding together, but don’t underestimate the current you’re creating just by continuing to move. Just by caring. Just by showing up for the people and places that matter right now. Your quiet courage is raising the waterline for someone else. The kindness you offered this week, the patience you gave your kid when they melted down, the note you sent, the prayer you whispered, the way you kept going even when no one saw—that’s you, being the tide.
You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to keep showing up.
And on the days you feel like a hot mess on open water, remember this: Your presence still lifts others. Your honesty, your empathy, your steady hand on the wheel when someone else is spinning out – that’s what changes people. That’s what changes you.
We aren’t just passengers in this harbor.
We are the tide.
We rise, we lift, and when the moment calls, we return.
And what that means, in plain terms, is this: We rise when life gives us the strength to. We lift others when we can, sharing the hope or kindness we’ve gathered along the way. And when the season shifts—or when our energy runs low—we return. We rest. We regroup. We come back when it’s time.
It’s not about staying forever. And maybe this is the rhythm we’re all learning—how to rise, how to lift, and how to return without guilt when the season shifts. How to trust that moving on isn’t quitting. It’s just the tide turning, like it always does.
May you rise when the water calls you higher.
May you lift others without losing yourself.
May you return when the season changes—
not in defeat, but in peace.
Because even the ocean knows
there is strength in both movement and rest.
The tide doesn’t apologize for turning.
And neither should you.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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