The Resilient Heart
March 2025 Edition
Last year was full of endings—little deaths. The end of my time in South Carolina, the end of my time in the United States, the end of a couple of significant relationships, and a palpable ending of a collective way of being. Although painful and sometimes confusing, I ultimately understood these endings as necessary teachers and opportunities to evolve. The more I let go of my resistance to these changes and accepted that releasing what was no longer harmonious was necessary, the more space I created for a more intimate connection with life and to myself.
As we prepared to move to Costa Rica, acceptance and trust became even deeper parts of my practice. As I watched my heart open, close, and open again—soften, harden, and soften once more—I marveled at my willingness and courage to try again. In the witnessing, my soul offered a message: To live and love fully is to embrace death fully. To live and love with an open heart is to embrace the impermanence of everything-relationships, home, the present moment or life itself.
As someone with a natal Pluto complex, deep transformation is nothing new to me. I have walked with both literal and metaphorical death and rebirth from the moment my soul entered this body. I nearly died at birth, was raised by an abusive mother whose only constant trait was her inconsistency—keeping me perpetually on edge—and have navigated a profound healing journey with C-PTSD (complex post-traumatic stress disorder).
Hearing this message, I knew, in that instant, that I was moving through another cycle of death/rebirth, where I would once again, leave behind an old way of living to make space for a more authentic version of myself to emerge. But this time felt different. I knew I was standing at the threshold of something profound—something bigger was being asked of me. Or maybe, for the first time, I was fully recognizing the weight of this message that has been a throughline in my life.
One morning a few weeks after landing in Costa Rica, Lair and I sat drinking coffee looking out on the jungle behind our house as the soft pinks and blues of the sunrise behind me were reflected in the sky. We were about to head to the beach for a morning surf session, our fourth in a row. My trauma brain whispered, Am I allowed to live this way? Can life here really feel this good? I dared to believe yes.
An hour later, my husband had a bad surf accident.
Before I continue, I want to reassure you—he’s okay. I wish I could say I was incredibly brave that morning, but the moment he looked back at me after riding a wave and said, “Ash, I’m hurt,” I left my body. I had just enough sense not to panic as I paddled in carefully, having no clue what I was about to see. And then we were there—just the two of us, standing on a remote beach in Costa Rica at 7:30 on a Thursday morning, wearing only our bathing suits. His face was covered in blood, so much so that I couldn’t tell what had happened. The car was a ten-minute walk away. We knew no one. I was so dissociated I couldn’t even ask for help.
It was one of the most vulnerable moments of my life.
I don’t know what Lair is made of or how he did it, but somehow, in that state, he carried his surfboard to the car and helped me strap both our boards to the roof. Thankfully, we had noticed a 24-hour clinic about fifteen minutes away, so I climbed into the driver’s seat for the first time since arriving—and drove a stick shift through Costa Rica, where traffic moves fast along mountain roads, and the rules of engagement are definitely different than in the States.
When we arrived, the waiting room was empty, and the doctor saw him right away. As I watched Lair getting stitched up, the doctor shared how close he had come to losing movement in one side of his face. At that moment, the room became a dark tunnel, and I had to excuse myself to a chair, pressing my head between my legs.
I felt like we were kids who had been careless, playing with toys we weren’t supposed to. My trauma brain said, See? I told you. Too much joy, and something bad is going to happen. You have to play it safe. I tried to uncouple the thoughts, wanting desperately to believe that living fully didn’t mean inviting disaster.
When I felt steady enough, I went back to Lair’s side and held his hand as the doctor continued stitching him up. I heard him ask, “How soon can I get back in the water?”
“Ten days,” the doctor replied.
I knew why Lair was asking. He didn’t want this accident to break him or keep him from enjoying one of his favorite pastimes. But I had a different thought.
I may never surf again. My heart boarded itself shut.
If you know me, you know surfing is one of my greatest passions not only because it is a source of joy, but because it makes me feel brave and alive. Surfing empowers me to be in the world in a different way so much so that I even named my favorite surfboard, Julie, after my therapist.
But in that clinic, I wanted nothing to do with surfing.
My mind once again spiraled, searching for meaning, creating stories about why this had happened. The doctor’s words to Lair cut through the noise: “One thing I am sure of is this wouldn’t have happened if you were sitting on the couch.” Then he added, “Maybe the board was protecting you from something worse. At least the worst didn’t happen.”
Three hours and eighteen stitches later, we left the clinic, both incredibly grateful for the care Lair had received and the doctor's perspective —one of possibility and gratitude that kept me anchored into hope.
While his body healed at a miraculous speed, I was frozen. The accident had triggered a PTSD episode, and my world turned dark. I joked to a friend, Isn’t it incredible how high-functioning you can be while in a trauma response? Because even though I felt afraid of everything, I was working, parenting, and moving through my days.
I kept looking at Lair, scanning him for signs he was okay, trying to convince my body that he was safe and the worst was over. But my nervous system wasn’t buying it. I went to bed afraid. I woke up afraid. Dread wrapped itself around me. The weight of this brush with catastrophe after a big, stressful move and the intensity of the ongoing collective change felt like too much.
I wanted to gather Lair, my boys, my dogs—hold them so close that nothing could harm them and haunted by intrusive thoughts, I began watching them all like a hawk.
For me, PTSD feels like living in a haunted house, with jump scares lurking around every corner. On my better days, I can remember to turn on the lights. But this time, I couldn’t find the light switches.
So I waited. I gave myself grace as often as I could. I trusted that time would heal me.
When Lair’s ten days were up and his stitches were out, we knew we had to get back in the ocean. The longer we stayed away, the worse it would get.
That first morning back, we paddled out, both terrified. As I sat in the water, I practiced noticing—really noticing—what it felt like to be there. The dark blues and aquamarine hues of the ocean. The salty, citrus-floral air. The light colored sand of the ocean floor. The mountains in the distance.
I didn’t rush to catch a wave. I took my time, bathing myself in compassion.
When Lair paddled for his first wave since the accident, I wanted to turn away. But I made myself watch. I saw him take the wave, saw him land safely, and I started sobbing.
My heart swelled, and a message rose within it:
My love for him is so big that sometimes it feels like it could shatter me.
The thought startled me. I followed its thread and uncovered something deeper: a belief that if anything happened to Lair I might explode into a million pieces.
I was shocked at the sheer volume of love my heart holds—love I wasn’t even fully aware of. I saw the ways I still guard my heart, afraid that loving him or my kids this way and the inevitability of someday losing them might break me. There it was again—the truth that to love fully is to risk loss.
That first day back in the ocean, I realized how much energy and time I spend resisting love and life—afraid, unwilling to accept their impermanence. I brace against pain, gripping tightly as if that might keep me or those I love safe. Yes, I carry trauma and scars from my lived experience, but withholding love or shielding myself from life’s most intimate moments out of fear feels like the greatest loss of all.
We paddled out into the ocean three days in a row, seeking healing. Each day was an opportunity to practice what I know to be true: I want to love. I want to live. I don’t want to cage myself. I don’t want to keep the vastness of my love or joy a secret. I don’t want just a cup full—I want an ocean full.
I want to allow the thrum of life to pull me deeper into it, not tuck myself away. That is not why I am here.
How resilient and capable our hearts are when we work those muscles.
So here I am—trying again. Surfing, loving, and living, even when I’m scared, because the joy is so much greater than the risk. Here I am, softening into life and relationships with more self-awareness and a deeper willingness to be present, even though I know everything is temporary. Because isn’t that why we are here?
Lair and I post accident. His recovery is truly a miracle, leaving only a scar on his chin. Didn’t effect his RBF at all.
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My surfboard Julie, named after my therapist.
SOUL ECHOES & INVITATION TO SHARE
Your Beautiful Heart
Where in your life are you resisting love or holding back out of fear?
How does your relationship with impermanence shape the way you experience joy?
What would it feel like to open yourself fully to the vastness of life, love, and presence?
Where are you choosing to soften, to trust, to step toward life rather than away from it?
