Flipping in the hammock was the final straw. I gave up.
One final email. That’s it. After I send this email, I can unplug and spend the next week kitesurfing the best beaches of Brazil—nay, the world–all day and celebrate the kilometers covered over a cocktail each night. Maybe a couple to make up for the travel day(s) I had.
Who knew that Brazil changed its visa rules? And who knew I didn’t actually need to panic, cancel my flight and spend 12 frantic hours hunting for a solution? I’ve never been so thankful for my Italian passport. One day of my vacation was lost, but only one final email stands between me and shutting off. One email that I can answer from a hammock surrounded by palm trees seems pretty doable.
Cue the security footage of my 50-year-old self, phone in hand with the final email pulled up, flipping entirely over the hammock in one graceful movement, landing on my foot with a hard thud.
If it hadn’t been for the weeks leading up to my trip, I probably would have laughed at the absurdity of the whole scene, but instead, I stayed on the ground an extra moment feeling completely defeated.
I give up.
It felt like the weight of the 24 hours leading up to the hammock fall—actually more like 8 weeks—fell on top of me mentally and physically. My meticulous planning for moving house, the many work trips and what was supposed to be my reprieve, Brazil, didn’t calm the chaos.
I thought if I planned well enough, I could control the outcome of my fall, but apparently the rest of the world didn’t get the memo—especially not the rogue hammock.
Even while writing this, I’m trying to compile a list of everything that had not gone to plan over the last couple months, but from my work schedule to the visa mishap, none of the events seem like a big deal? At least not in hindsight. But when you’re burned out, everything feels so much deeper than it needs to. And once again, like clockwork, I am burned out leading into the final weeks of the year.
I’ve been running at full speed in both my personal and professional life since September. And if you know me, nothing is quite as restorative as a week of kitesurfing dozens of kilometres a day—six or seven hours on the water.
I kept telling myself I just needed to send one more email (or did I?) before I could finally unplug and focus on refining my kitesurfing.
Call it fate, call it a fluke, but answering that one last email, which probably didn’t need to be answered, was the final straw—I was forced to slow down.
After pulling myself off the ground, slightly embarrassed that I flipped Mr. Bean style over a hammock, and mostly just frustrated that my foot actually hurt because of it, altering my plans for the week didn’t cross my mind.
Sporting a bruised foot and literally limping down the beach to rig my kite, I was determined to push through the next 6 to 7 hours on the water—because it was the plan. It had been my plan to focus on refining my hydrofoiling, which is inherently unstable (as am I apparently).
It only took one frustrating hour for my stubborn self to realize I wasn’t making it a kilometer let alone 70. After a quick internal tantrum (hello again inner child trying to prove something), I conceded and switched to a stable surfboard. And then I promptly proceed to pull my hamstring. Then my kite valve blew up when it slammed the water.
Floating in the South Atlantic, I gave up again.
Giving up trying to control everything was what I needed more than hydrofoiling dozens a kilometers a day. I was so wound up from the previous week, mentally and physically depleted, that I was bound for disaster.
Again, call it fate or fluke, but I don’t think my trip was meant to be one of my typical kiteboarding trips—despite being surrounded by the best kiting beaches in the world. It was meant to be a hard reset. A moment to let go of the plan and let myself fully let go.
Sure, pulling my hamstring and bruising my foot could have been random misfortunes; but they ultimately forced me to slow down. The new physical injuries were just a reflection of what had been happening mentally for weeks. Subconsciously, I needed to pause. Give up control.
It’s been a hard pill for me to accept that preparation doesn’t guarantee perfection—in any aspect of my life. And it’s a lesson I’ll probably need to fall out of a few more hammocks before it fully sticks. But for now, I can admit, control is an illusion. Variables will always be outside your control. The goal isn’t to fight them, but to stay adaptable (and humble) enough to ride through them.
Adjusting isn’t losing (I say this to remind my inner child who’s still having a tantrum). By the end of the trip I settled with kiting two to three hours a day on a surf board (much easier than a foil).
I’ll admit, it felt like regression at first, but sometimes levelling down is the only way forward.
So what do we think, was this the vacation when everything went wrong? Or the vacation when everything went exactly how it needed to go?