by Jesse Huggins
Ever since I was little, I’ve been afraid to swim in the ocean. Those who know me best could probably count on one finger—maybe less—the number of times they’ve seen me fully submerged in the Gulf. That’s saying something, considering I’ve spent more than half of my 39 years here in Pensacola.
It wasn’t because I couldn’t swim; I was in swim lessons practically before I could walk. And it wasn’t because I was small or fragile—I’ve always been tall, sometimes even sturdier than most of my peers. No, what I feared were sharks.
Looking out at that calm, endless blue, my mind would instantly cue up scenes from Jaws, replaying them until the water felt less like a playground and more like a trap. Before long, I stopped going in altogether.
But last year, something changed. It was a small moment at first—quiet, almost unremarkable—but it would become a turning point in how I see everything. Even now, I think its meaning is still unfolding, showing itself to me in rare moments of stillness, when both my mind and the world around me finally go quiet.
In May 2024, a large group of my closest friends came to visit. We rented a house in Navarre, spending our days laughing, eating, and weaving our bonds even tighter—more family than friends. One afternoon, for reasons I can’t remember, I found myself alone on the beach. The day was cool and windy, the kind of weather that usually keeps people on shore. But something in me stirred—an inexplicable pull toward the water.
So I went. Without telling anyone, I stepped into the cold Gulf and let it take me in.
At first, the waves were gentle, brushing softly against my chest, carrying me a little farther with each roll. But as I moved deeper, the waves grew taller, stronger. They rose to my neck, and I had to work to stay afloat. What once felt like an embrace now felt like resistance—a force trying to pull me under.
Before long, the waves began crashing over my head. Each time I tried to “beat the wave,” I failed—mouth full of saltwater, coughing, choking, struggling against something that was never meant to be fought. I realized then that I was much farther out than I’d intended to be. The beach seemed impossibly distant.
Exhausted, I stopped fighting. I let my legs rest. I saw another wave coming and, instead of bracing against it, I decided to surrender. I held my breath and let it hit me.
But instead of swallowing me, it lifted me.
The next wave came—and it lifted me too. And the next. And the next.
And in that moment, something within me shifted.
The waves weren’t the enemy. They never had been. The ocean makes waves—it’s what the ocean does. The waves are not personal, not malicious. They simply are.
And life, I realized, is no different. Life sends waves—challenges, changes, losses, heartbreaks. I had spent so long resisting them, trying to control or outswim what was simply part of the tide. But the waves were never the problem. My resistance was.
When I finally accepted that truth, I found peace.
As I walked back to shore, everything looked different. I felt different. From that day on, whenever a problem arose, I’d remind myself: It’s just a wave. It didn’t matter how big or small the problem was—they were all waves. And waves, by nature, come and go.
Not long after, I heard a phrase that struck deep: “It’s not happening to you; it’s happening for you.”
That one landed perfectly.
Since then, life hasn’t been smooth sailing—it still has its storms. But now I know they pass. I’ve been lost, only to realize I was simply being redirected. The resistance was the real undertow.
And as for the sharks—I’ve learned I was never really afraid of them. What I feared was the unknown, the place where sharks might be. I feared stepping into life where the possibility of pain existed, instead of choosing to live fully anyway.
I hope you resonated with this, and when the next set rolls in—and it always does—you take a deep breath, steady yourself, and remember: “It’s just a wave”