How Surfing Helped Me Overcome Corporate Burnout

My heart pounded as I dragged my board to the water’s edge. Behind the choppy waves, experienced surfers rode their slender boards, waiting for a perfect wave. They would paddle hard, racing the waves, then leap to their feet, flying along the smooth surface of each wave in time. I longed to master such grace.

“Are you ready?” my coach asked.

No, not at all, not at all. I swallowed and followed my coach’s gaze toward the roaring, five-foot waves crashing against the beach. The hair on my arms stood up.

“let’s go!”

I swung my arms and jumped over the first wave. The board flew out of the water and launched me directly into the surf. Over and over again.

But I didn’t let myself get discouraged. In the midst of battling wooden planks and tumbling through seaweed, I discovered an unprejudiced curiosity that kept me going, even when I was bruised and soaked.

I don’t need to know what’s going to happen next, whether the next wave will push me off course or be the best ride of my life. Mastery is in the process of discovery and response, in finding a way forward, no matter what.

As a corporate strategist, I’m used to projecting authority, presenting data-heavy charts and punchy PowerPoint presentations to influential executives. Playing the expert is exhausting. That’s why, during a much-needed vacation in Costa Rica, I felt particularly out of my depth as a beginner standing on a scalding beach with a 9-foot foam surfboard under my tongs.

My heart was pounding as I walked to the water’s edge, dragging my ignominious badge with me. At work, uncertainty felt like a burden and made me nervous. Here, it was simply embarrassing, with the entire beach looking at me.

Behind the swells, experienced surfers rode tiny boards, waiting for the perfect crest. They would paddle hard, race against the waves, leaping to their feet and flying along the smooth surface of each wave in time. I longed to master this grace.

“Are you ready?” my coach asked.

No, not at all, not at all. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried anything new, and my busy career demands my full attention. I swallowed and followed my coach’s gaze toward the roaring 5-foot waves crashing on the beach. The hair on my arms stood up.

“Let’s go!” My response surprised me, but I meant it. I loved the beauty and power of the ocean and dreamed of harnessing its elemental energy. I had depleted my own energy years before.

My instructor demonstrated how to propel the board through the waves while walking in a “stingray’s footstep,” rubbing my feet against the sand to create vibrations that tell any lurking stingrays to stay away. When we were finally in waist-deep water, he showed me how to turn around and get back to shore on my belly.

The next time, we swam out until the water was up to my chest, and the instructor asked me to climb onto the board. I put my hands on the deck of the board and jumped off, and with a bang, the water landed on my stomach. A white wall of water quickly poured in behind me, and I paddled, getting faster and faster.

I pushed myself up and swung my legs unsteadily, forgetting any embarrassment and feeling as happy as a kid standing on a surfboard for the first time. I quickly fell over. After a few more attempts, I slid lightly toward the shore.

The impact was over so quickly that I fell, my tailbone hitting the soft sand. But I was not hurt. I jumped up and hurried back to prepare for the next exciting ride.

Nothing can stop me now.

“Remember the stingray’s drag!” my instructor yelled. I forced myself to slow down, eager to try it again—and again.

Such, I’ve learned, is the power of a beginner’s mindset. Failure is a stepping stone to success. Setbacks transform into lessons. Wonder heightens the senses, and the joy of something new inspires play and exploration.

Slowly, I improved. I learned to paddle under the impact of the waves and then “out to sea” to the coveted calm behind the wave crest, where the real surfers congregate. I practiced reading the waves until I could predict their arrival and speed. Finally, I rode my first wave, riding along the crest of pure seafire. My heart soared like a pelican overhead. I was no longer a novice.

But I wasn’t a master yet. Most waves washed me over my head, leaving me struggling for breath underwater. The awe of the newness wore off. I considered giving up. I would never be a master, dancing on a board small enough to be called a fish. But I wanted a taste of freedom. So I persisted.

After a few weeks of practice, my moves became smoother. I skated more and fell less. Finally, my coach gave me a new item. A Malibu longboard, shiny and smooth. Forget the foam; I could add wax. Now I was a little better. I danced on the beach with my prize.

I knew what to do. Shuffle to chest-deep. Paddle through the rough waves. Sail into the deep blue sea.

I flailed my arms and jumped over the first oncoming wave. But my new board rushed out of the ocean and launched me directly into the waves. I surfaced and tried to grab the beast, but as I tried to climb on, the slippery object flung away from me. I gave it a wry smile and chased after it.

What’s next? A backflip?

But I wasn’t discouraged. From my first day surfing, between battling with the board and tumbling through seaweed, I discovered an unprejudiced curiosity that kept me going, even when I was bruised and water-stained. Maybe I had tasted the freedom of a seasoned surfer after all.

I grabbed the plank, panting, and dragged myself up, resting for a moment. Then I looked up.

Another wall of water was approaching.

“Can we make it?” I whispered to myself as I paddled eagerly, still excited from my last adventure. But I knew that, one way or another, I would make it. This thought filled me with a vibrant peace that I would take with me when I left Costa Rica.

I don’t need to know exactly what’s coming next, whether the next wave will throw me off course or be the best ride of my life. I’ll never be an expert; even an expert can’t know the next wave in advance. New challenges keep coming, each one filled with possibility and opportunity for growth.

Suddenly, my career looked a little different. Sure, I had expertise, but I didn’t need to be an “expert.” Mastery was in the process of discovery and response, in finding a way forward, no matter what.