Watch me! I’m in a kayak! I’m paddling!
This might not appear significant. Many individuals go kayaking. The fact that the boats are available at Walmart suggests it’s not a niche activity. However, for me, it was a major deal.
I wasn’t aware of it until we arrived at the boathouse atCanoe Bay.
Kayaking was planned for months. When I checked the resort’s available facilities, kayaking was listed, and I quickly asked Jim if he wanted to try it. He had never been kayaking before, but I considered myself experienced, having only paddled twice in my entire life.
He agreed, and we set off. But we had no idea…
The first time I went kayaking was effortless. It was a leisurely glide down theLower Salt RiverIn Mesa, Arizona. I didn’t really have to row; I could have simply used my oar to avoid hitting the banks and would have been okay.
This was a comfort, honestly, as I had been worried about it. At 49 years old and in poor physical condition, I wasn’t sure if I could manage to kayak for two hours. Luckily, the water did most of the effort, and I had a wonderful instructor who showed me cacti, swallows, and wild horses.
My second time, however.
It had only been two years, yet it felt like an entirely different era. This time, I was 51 and still in poor physical condition, but I had also become a cancer survivor. I was diagnosed in August 2020, and by the following summer, I had finished five months of chemotherapy along with three weeks of radiation, with my final treatment taking place on June 24, 2021.
Two months later, I took part in a media tour toDoor County, Wisconsin.
A portion of the schedule involved kayaking on Lake Michigan. This was not a peaceful, quiet, gently moving shallow river. Not at all. We were heading into the depths of a vast body of water so large that its horizon seemed like the edges of the world.
But I said yes.
I’m happy I did it, but oh, it was challenging. We used two-person boats and they matched me with someone who had experience. She sat in the back to steer, which needed more skill.
We set off. However, unlike the other writers who appeared to follow the instructor in a straight path, we veered away from the shore and then returned, effectively covering double the distance. That might not sound significant, except for my extremely sensitive skin.
The radiation had harmed my body outside the specific region where the lasers were directed. I developed rashes on my arms, chest, and between my fingers. I came to understand firsthand that skin is a single large organ.
Tip: if you’ve received radiation treatment and choose to go kayaking, use gloves. We hadn’t even made a few turns before the skin between my thumbs and index fingers started to split.
Fortunately, our guide was equipped with bandages. She gave me a few, and I ended up needing every single one.
We kept moving, keeping up with the rest. Kind of. I proposed that we might need to head in a direct path and held back from informing my companion where she could place her “we’ll arrive” clichés.
We arrived at a location featuring a cliff. The others landed their boats on the rocks, climbed up the rocky slope, jumped into the lake, and swam back.
Oh, that seemed like a lot of enjoyment, but my skin was already irritated and all of a sudden I felt scared, so we sat and drifted along, observing and I shed tears.
Fast forward to July 2025. Jim and I received an invitation to spend time at Canoe Bay, a secluded retreat located in the Northwoods of Wisconsin.
As soon as we arrived and spotted the private lake from our private deck, I imagined gliding along the shoreline, dipping my oar into the water with a steady, flowing motion.
I imagined it, expected it, until we arrived at the boathouse.
Then I became frozen in place. I gazed at the line of boats arranged like toppled dominoes. I looked at the dock and the lake. I accompanied Jim into the boathouse to retrieve a life jacket and a double-bladed oar, and throughout it all, I kept thinking, “I don’t think I can do this.” I recalled the sensation of my skin, the pain, the fear, the frustration; I remembered everything. I experienced it as though it were occurring all over once more.
I wasn’t aware I carried those intense memories, but I did. I nearly gave up before even beginning. I almost informed my husband that I couldn’t handle it.
And then I recalled my identity. That I am the individual who droveSix days until the Gulf CoastDuring a pandemic, my life-saving chemotherapy treatments were disrupted, and I ended up sleeping in the back of an SUV so I could lead a writing workshop.
Sure, I could have backed out. I had cancer, for crying out loud, and was in the middle of my treatment. But I had promised. People were traveling from across the country. I had made a commitment. Also, my oncologist said my mental health was just as crucial and that this would be beneficial for me.
That occurred in March 2021. By April, I had released my book,Living Landmarks of Chicago, most of which I had researched and written during my chemotherapy.
Since that time, I have undertaken many challenging tasks, such as writing and releasing my first novel. I am currently working on my seventh one.
I could hop into a boat on a lake as still as a bathtub.
So I did it. And it was amazing. I can’t describe how wonderful it was to glide across that smooth surface. Sure, it was a bit slow. But the drops of cold water hitting my calves, the sun on my back, and the smile on my face—so much enjoyment!
I was frightened getting into that kayak, but what scared me even more? Allowing my fear to stop me from discovering something extraordinary.
I understood that if I allowed my fear to take control, or if I left without at least making an effort, I would end up regretting it.
One lesson I learned from surviving cancer is that you can’t predict what will happen next. The following moment isn’t something we can count on, so I need to seize chances whenever they come my way. I’ve always dreamed of writing novels since I was a young girl, and it took a serious illness to finally push me into action.
That conclusion transformed everything. It caused a major change, and over the past four years I’ve developed so much that I’m almost unrecognizable. I’ve learned how to decline, and discovered the pleasure of missing out.
I have also learned to respond with “Yes.” Yes to the young girl who aspired to write tales, and yes to the woman in her middle years who understands that life is wondrous and that regrets belong to the stories we never allow ourselves to experience.
So I agreed to the kayak. Yes to the fear, to the bravery, to myself.
And as I moved silently over the lake, I realized I had overcome that fear permanently.
I granted myself the present of complete, unfiltered happiness—because I saw that row of kayaks arranged like dominoes and said,I’ve got this.
And I did.
