☕ Let’s Take a Ride Together
Sit back, grab your morning cup of coffee, and let’s go on a little journey together.
Most people who meet me—especially those who train with me—know I’m a very active person. I like doing hard things. Sometimes scary things. That’s been true since I was a kid. I loved being active, but I was often told I couldn’t—or wasn’t allowed to—do certain things, just because I was a girl.
So I pushed boundaries. I’ve driven a motorcycle 110 mph down the highway, jumped out of an airplane at 18,000 feet, and ridden my bicycle downhill at over 50 mph wearing nothing but a helmet and a thin layer of Lycra.
But there was one thing that always eluded me: swimming in Santa Cruz, especially around the Wharf.
๐ The Fear & the Block
This past month, I did something I’ve been afraid to do for years: I paddled all the way around the Santa Cruz Wharf. What might sound like a fun Saturday to some was, for me, a huge breakthrough.
I’ve had a deep, persistent fear of the ocean for as long as I can remember. So intense, in fact, that I used to fake being sick to get out of it. Sea lions, kelp, sharks, choppy water, powerful waves—it all terrified me. The unpredictability triggered massive anxiety. And since I started doing triathlons in 2012, I found ways to avoid ocean swims altogether, choosing events in rivers or reservoirs where the water felt safer and more familiar.
It wasn’t just fear of the ocean itself. It was fear of freezing up, of drowning, of needing help in front of others. As a coach, that felt unacceptable.
๐ Slowly, I Returned
But over the past couple years, my role shifted. I began coaching open water swims for the Silicon Valley Triathlon Club. I got myself a stand-up paddleboard (SUP) so I could support my athletes from the water. At first, I stayed close to shore—maybe 200 yards out at most. Each time I paddled out, I focused on calming myself. I’d just sit on the board, feel the water move beneath me, and watch the other swimmers.
Little by little, the anxiety began to ease.
Eventually, one day, I paddled all the way to the end of the wharf—and around it.
Maybe it was the responsibility I felt that day, staying close to my athletes. Maybe it was the years of gradual exposure. Whatever it was, I did it. And when I reached the end of the pier, I cried. I let the emotion roll through me like a wave I’d been holding back for a long time.
๐ฅ The Bigger Picture: Hormones, Health, and Identity
This moment wasn’t just about conquering a fear. It was the result of something bigger: rebuilding my body and mind over the past year.
I’ve been navigating hormone replacement therapy, relearning how to rest, managing stress, and slowly returning to training. The old “push through it” mindset didn’t work anymore.
When I realized I was in perimenopause—and later, menopause—it all started to make sense. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, battling brain fog, and getting very little sleep. Anxiety became constant. I stopped riding on the road, stopped running in the dark, and I definitely stayed away from open water.
Getting help changed everything.
My regular doctor wasn’t much help—they hadn’t learned anything about menopause (as is sadly common). So I looked elsewhere and found Midi Health. With their support, things started improving. Over the past 8 months, I’ve felt a major shift. The anxiety—which was the hardest part—finally started to lift.
That shift in my mental and emotional state was key. It gave me the clarity, confidence, and courage to finally paddle past the Wharf.
๐️ The Day I Paddled Around the Wharf
The day I finally did it was during a course preview for Tri Santa Cruz, where the swim goes from Watchtower #3, out and around the end of the wharf, then back into the beach by the Dream Inn.
That morning was... calm. The drive over Hwy 17 was peaceful, not panic-inducing. I arrived early, inflated my board, and walked it to the beach. The ocean was still. The air was cool but not cold. Even the 50+ swimmers—20 of them mine—seemed relaxed and excited.
The water was calm. Barely any surf to wade through. The temperature was a pleasant 64 degrees. The sound of gulls and waves was oddly soothing.
About halfway to the end of the wharf, it hit me: I was actually going to do it. I stopped paddling, turned toward my swimmers, and just sat there. Calm. Present. Watching them move through the water.
I felt that familiar lump in my throat. Let it come. Tears welled up, then passed. And I continued paddling.
When I reached the farthest point—farther from the beach than I’d ever been—I looked back and felt something I hadn’t felt in the ocean before: peace. The kind I’d only ever known during a protected harbor swim in Kona.
I encouraged my swimmers as they rounded the pier and together we headed back toward shore.
๐ฌ Why I’m Sharing This
This wasn’t about crossing a finish line. It wasn’t about going faster or setting a new personal best.
It was about facing a long-standing fear—and getting the help I needed to do it.
Sometimes the help we need isn’t visible. Sometimes it’s not about a training plan or a coach. Sometimes it’s internal: subtle, hidden, and deeply rooted in hormones, identity, or emotional health.
To move forward, I had to name my fear, understand its roots, and find the tools to work through it. For me, it was a mix of time, patience, a supportive community, and yes—hormone therapy.
If you are facing your own version of the Wharf right now—whether it’s physical, emotional, hormonal—you’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
You’re in transition.
And there is a path forward.