It’s my favorite picture. The one with my hand over my mouth. Tears falling from my eyes that show a wild, joyous expression. Hand over mouth with all my fingers glued together, a muzzle, a container of triumph as if it could burst through the seams, the mouth being the place where it leaks first. I selfishly hoard these sensations. The special kind of joy wanting to seep like an overstuffed suitcase you have to sit on to close the zipper. Screw the overweight baggage fee, I’m taking it all.
Hand over mouth slows this process. Hand over mouth keeps the joy inside. You know the reaction. The “Miss America” I call it.
This treasured picture of myself captured in my figure skating career was just that. Me. Hand over mouth. I had just won my first Nationals, I’m in the Kiss and Cry, the throne-like area where we receive our scores, and I’m with my coach. Her fist is in the air with a victorious triumph, a wide-mouthed, toothy smile, and me in the background. Hand over mouth.
I left figure skating to heal. I left skating to heal both myself and my relationship with my body that the sport and its environment had been a toxic catalyst. I had fallen deep into my eating disorder at the pinnacle of my skating career, where the sport exacerbated my struggles with my body image. I was fresh off my bronze medal finish as a Masters competitor at Nationals, International skating goals to obtain in Germany and professional skater auditions on the horizon. But instead of working toward my new goals, I walked away.
I left skating to heal, but I also knew that I had closed the door on so much more. I shoved my skates in the back of my closet at my parents’ house, a signal to myself of complete resignation, much like burning my ex-boyfriend’s T-shirt because it still smelled like him. I put my skates away in the back of the closet of my childhood bedroom and out of sight. With much sadness and a tinge of regret, I knew it was time to move on.
I didn’t think I’d ever be able to live my life and have a hand over my mouth moment again.
What a shame.
Months after I moved to Hawaii, it was 2017, and I knew that the absence of skating would mean that something else had to take its place. Living in Hawaii means there’s limited options for this void-filling conquest, so naturally, I turned to surfing.
There’s a beauty and solace I had found in surfing, and it was in the smallest of reasons. There’s no mirrors in surfing. There’s no scales. There’s no mean, fat-shaming Russian coaches. There’s no concern with gaining weight during puberty or having the “right body type.” Surfing is inclusive.
There was a day I paddled out to Summers, a distant, middle-of-the ocean reef break about 200 yards from the St. Regis beach on the North Shore of Kauai. Clear blue water, cascading waterfalls in the distance, coconut palms littering the shoreline.
I wade in the water waist-deep as I wax my board, watching sets roll in and feel my stomach clench. My two friends start to paddle past me and into the channel, where I jump on my board quickly to catch up. I dig my hands and forearms into the water—an efficiency, a skill only learned through relentless practice. My breath becomes heavier, but the pounding and falling of mass amounts of water and force become louder, more cacophonous than I’m comfortable with. Still, I persist. I edge closer and begin to feel the habitual astonishment and insignificance that comes with the territory of dancing with the humbling and unforgiving ocean. I am an ant. I am an ant next to a large, alive, and relentless string of watery goliaths forming slowly in the horizon.
I glace at my friends, and they give me a smirk. I don’t do big waves. They know I don’t do big waves. They are likely thinking I am going to turn around. I always turn around. But not this time. I make it to the outside, the safe space where the waves don’t break. I straddle my board and look down at my shaking hands, then forward to the horizon, then back down to my shaking hands. I do not move. I decide I’m going to surf. I came to surf. I used to hurl myself into the air on a 4 millimeter thick blade, for god’s sake.
I caught the biggest wave of my life that day. The white water loomed over my head. When I made it to the end of the very long 100+ yard ride, I kicked out, turned around, and straddled my board.
Hand. Over. Mouth.
I floated in that space bobbing in the ocean as the shallow reef tickled my feet, and watched the waves following mine. It had dawned on me. Hand over mouth—it’s still a reaction to be had.
Surfing had morphed into a beacon. Surfing insinuated a slow, subtle transformation. The heavy and burdensome thoughts about my body were alchemized into pure and unadulterated joy.
How the fat surrounding my belly button or the jiggle of my thighs as I walked became less of a concern, even for fleeting seconds at a time. Surfing transformed my narrative about my body by simply changing my perspective into what my body could do.
The astonishment of this strong and tactile meatsuit, its infinite capabilities, reminded me it still worked in my favor, no matter what the fuck it looked like. Surfing opened up the cracks of my soul that abandoned my body and was the impetus for this new sense of awe. A newfound relationship, that of healthy admiration.
As I bobbed in the shallows, I peeled my fingers away from the coverage of my mouth, one at a time—and I felt love.
I felt only love.
Amanda Blackwell is a writer whose work explores grief, relationships, body image, and the complexities of being human. A former competitive figure skater, her work blends memoir with cultural observation, examining the stories we inherit and the ones we choose to rewrite. She is also a TEDx speaker whose talk focuses on eating disorders in athletes. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found reading, surfing, skating, or searching for the perfect language to articulate an experience.
Stunning. This was visceral--my body feeling your body, through your words. Ripple effect. Healing. Thank you.
Fantastic essay. Kowabunga!