Something humbling about the ocean is how its vastness meets the shore without asking permission. For years, the ocean represented fear to me. Fear of the unknown, fear of my body not cooperating, fear that my condition — transthyretin amyloid cardiomyopathy (ATTR-CM) — would be a wall I couldn’t climb. But this week, something shifted. I went to the ocean, and I didn’t just stand at the edge — I stepped in.
Living with ATTR-CM means my heart has to work harder than most. It means my legs can feel unreliable, my digestion unpredictable, and simple joys — like being in the water — can seem out of reach. The ocean is no place for someone with balance concerns or stamina limitations… or so I had convinced myself.
But God has a way of meeting us right where we are — especially in the places we’re most afraid of.
Before the trip, I had barely been eating. My body wasn’t cooperating. There was fear in the background — what if I couldn’t enjoy myself? What if I became a burden to my family? What if I just felt… left out?
But something unexpected happened when we arrived.
We were surrounded by beauty — the kind that quiets the mind and soothes the soul. The air smelled like salt and freedom, and the sky seemed to stretch forever. I had one small issue early on, but after that, I ate — not just to nourish myself, but to enjoy life. I laughed alongside my family, soaked up the sun, and even had ice cream. It felt like a miracle to me.
For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t just surviving. I was living.
The ocean has always been something I admired from afar — powerful, beautiful… but intimidating. I’ve always had a fear of it. The crashing waves, the unknown depth, the way it moves and shifts without warning. I didn’t think I’d be able to go in. But God had something different in mind.
The waves were calm that week — almost unusually so. The water looked like it was waiting for me. My sister Shelly and I decided to go in together. We slowly made our way toward the shore, ready to step in. Brad, my husband, had already gone out ahead of me.
I stood on the beach, boogie board in hand, unsure. Then I saw Brad — walking back toward me, smiling, reaching for my hand. No words, just presence. He walked me gently into the water, guiding me past the place where the waves crash and churn, into the still, rhythmic bob of the deeper water. The exact spot where you float, not fight.
And just like that, I was in. Floating. Bobbing with the waves. No fear. Just freedom.
I wish I could tell you that my mind stayed clear and grateful, but the truth is, the enemy tried to sneak in. Look at you, he whispered. You can’t even get in the ocean without help. You’re a burden. That lie has lived at the edge of my mind for too long. But this time, the whisper didn’t win.
I looked at Brad. I felt his steady arm, his complete love. And then I turned inward and upward — and pushed that voice down. I held onto love instead.
Love came in the form of my husband walking through the waves to guide me, not because I was a burden, but because I am loved. And that kind of love silences lies.
We had long, unhurried conversations out there. We told stories, made jokes, and just floated — together. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t thinking about my diagnosis or my symptoms. I was just a person, in the ocean, in the sun, fully alive in that moment.
And the memories didn’t stop there. The whole family was even able to take a boat ride one afternoon. We sped out into the open water, wind in our hair, smiles on our faces. I had quietly hoped to see dolphins, and although they didn’t appear, we were treated to a beautiful surprise: an island full of birds.
During the ride we were entirely surrounded by sky and sea for about an hour — nothing but clouds meeting water in every direction. I sat there in the ocean and felt something profound shift in my soul.
I felt free.
Free from fear. Free from shame. Free from the need to be strong all the time. Free from the idea that my condition limits me. ATTR-CM didn’t define me in that moment. It doesn’t define me now.
I was reminded that while my body may have limits, my spirit does not. I was reminded that love carries me. That joy is still mine to experience. And I learned that the ocean — once something I feared — could be the very place where I felt most at peace.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like someone managing a disease. I felt like a woman in the ocean with her family laughing, floating, alive. Eating without fear, smiling without a shadow.
God met me on that shore.
And I have faith that He’ll meet you wherever your fears lie, too — because no wave is too big for His love to walk through.
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