Could you tell me a time you felt unmoored?

I have always been on the move, physically, and internally. Growing up, I was a gymnast and a horseback rider, and loved to run. In college I picked up sailing, and traveled around the world taking sailing jobs. I don’t have to think very hard to understand where this need for constant momentum comes from- it is because I have an extremely active mind, which never stops, even when I sleep. Constantly, my head is flooded with thoughts, ideas for creative endeavours, hopes, dreams, plans and, let's face it- a lot of anxiety. While I am on the move, this is all well and good, but as soon as I complete my task, I find myself on the move again, but not necessarily in any particular direction. I never knew how to describe this feeling, so I began to identify it as “unmoored.” It is as if I am a tiny boat with no sails and nothing to anchor to, being tossed around by waves larger than itself. It’s compass is broken and spinning. It is near impossible to find a safe harbor again.

Anyone who has gone on a big adventure knows the confusion of returning home that follows. You have been away, growing, developing- you are not the same person as you were when you left. And then you come home to the same place, the same people, attempting to settle back into the routine that used to be suitable. I remember the first time I really felt this way. I lived on a large sailing ship, conducting oceanographic research, crewing the vessel, and spending every waking moment with the same 18 people for three months straight. The routine was exciting, everything we did had an important purpose, from checking the bilges to make sure we weren’t taking on water, to trimming the sails to maintain our heading. And then, all of a sudden, it was over. For three months, I hadn’t entered a building, any sort of structure at all, and then I was in the San Juan airport, waiting for my flight back home. I was acutely unmoored, as I watched every single one of my shipmates board their flights to their respective homes. I was completely and utterly alone, as my flight was hours after the last of my shipmates left. I remember the feeling that something was missing, as if I still needed to check the bilges or trim the sails, or just talk to one of my shipmates. My phone was less than interesting. Nothing seemed important any longer. I was as lost as lost could be. Upon my return, I remember feeling completely shell shocked, unsure of how to explain my experience to my family and friends. “How was it?” they would ask with a huge smile and a big hug. How wasn’t it? I would think to myself. It was everything. “It was great,” I would reply. But “great” didn’t seem to cover it. There was nothing to think about but keeping the boat afloat, at the end of the day. Because of how unique my experience was, I thought there was no way anyone else could understand what I was feeling. 

For months I felt this way, directionless, unmoored, my internal compass was spinning out of control. I felt like a soda can that had been all shaken up, but the lid was still on, filled with potential energy, but no way to convert it to kinetic energy. I had never felt more stuck, until I found my next adventure, my next direction. Here is the most important thing that I have learned from feeling like this: that there is always a way to find your next heading. Rely on your eyes, not the compass. We are natural navigators, and the correct direction is the way you are already going. And yes, sometimes we get lost in a squall of thoughts, with nowhere to turn for an outlet, but there is always something, some next big adventure that follows. Ride out the storm, and then life will follow.