On a sticky July afternoon in 2024, I sat on my family’s cabin porch in Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania with my friend Lauren.
She was telling me (for the second time) about scuba diving, how much she loved it, and how much she thought I’d love it too.
“It sounds cool,” I said under the hum of cicadas, “But I just can’t take on another hobby right now.”
“Sure,” she said, with that knowing look only Lauren has—that in a matter of weeks, or perhaps even hours, I would join her in whatever endeavor she had dreamt up.
She knows I would follow her to hell and back.
This time, it took me a month. By the time my plane touched down in Grand Junction, I was Googling diving classes in the valley and before summer was over, I had taken my Open Water online course and was in the pool starting my first lesson.
By mid-October, I was a certified open water diver.
By January, I was diving off a boat in Cozumel, Mexico.
By March, I was on a liveaboard sailboat in the Bahamas.
By April, I was starting my Advanced Open Water course.
Like Leslie Knope, I struggle not to half-ass a lot of things and truly whole-ass one thing (I am always making deals to cut back some hours, but never fully take a sabbatical from anything).
But when I landed in the Bahamas in late March with only six ocean dives under my belt—prepping to add another 18—I was relatively unfazed. Committing to these dive trips was whole-assing something, in a way. My mom arrived with even less experience, having just completed her Open Water certification in Florida a month earlier.
Perhaps confidence is inherited.
We boarded the Morning Star—a 65 foot sailboat—on a Saturday and by Monday morning had a tight routine as we motored around the Exumas:
7:00 a.m.: Peel myself out of my bunk at the bow, shared with seven other people
7:15 a.m.: Get coffee in the salon and try not to wake up anyone still sleeping
7:30 a.m.: Eat breakfast despite having no interest in eating breakfast so early
8:30 a.m.: Put on still-damp wetsuit over still-damp bathing suit I ate breakfast in. Swap the first stage on my tank, check my air, bungee gear back in place.
8:45 a.m.: Listen to the dive briefing extremely closely and remember I’m responsible for Mom because I have a whopping six more dives than her.
9:00 a.m.: Put on gear and try not to look like I have no idea what I’m doing. Jump 10 feet off the boat into the water. Dive until our air runs out.
10:00 a.m.: Get back on the boat. Secure tank in tank rack. Swap out first stage so they can refill the tank. Don’t forget to bungee everything back in place. Peel off wetsuit. Put damp cover-up on. Shiver. Reapply sunscreen.
10:15 a.m.: Eat a snack because I’m suddenly starving while we motor to the next dive spot.
11:15 a.m.: Put my very much soaking-wet wetsuit back on. Reattach my first stage.
11:30 a.m.: Dive briefing #2. Again, remember I’m responsible for Mom and that I want her to have a pleasant experience—and maybe do this again with me—so I better pay attention.
11:45 a.m.: Dive back into the water.
12:30 p.m.: Back on the boat. Repeat the process.
1:00 p.m.: Eat lunch.
2:00 p.m.: Repeat gearing up.
2:15 p.m.: Dive briefing #3.
2:30 p.m.: Jump off boat. Dive.
3:30 p.m.: Back on the boat. Repeat tank swap.
4:00 p.m.: Some kind of afternoon adventure or chat or lie down or snack—or all of the above.
6:30 p.m.: Dinner.
8:45 p.m.: Gear back up for night dive.
9:00 p.m.: Night dive briefing. Do not panic even though the dive master warns of box jellyfish coming up from the depths at night. (But actually panic a lot.)
9:15 p.m.: Dive into the water in the dark because light attracts the jellyfish. Do not turn on flashlight until at least 15 feet below the surface. Attempt to navigate in the dark.
10:00 p.m.: Back on the boat. Reset gear for the morning dive.
10:30 p.m.: Crawl into the cramped, damp bunk and wait for the anchor to drop before drifting off to sleep.
Repeat for five days.
We were offered 18 dives over those five days and my mom and I were the only ones on the boat to do them all. We were also only two of three to get night diver certified.
That’s whole-assing something if you ask me.
The dives were incredible. And even though I was often exhausted by that third afternoon dive (and whooped by the time the night dive rolled around), once I took that giant stride off the boat into the ocean, I didn’t regret the uncomfortable process of peeling in and out of my sticky, cold wetsuit or futzing with my gear.
We saw every sea creature imaginable.
Mom overcame her fear of sharks.
I (somewhat) overcame my fear of jellyfish.
We looked out into the thousand-foot abyss of a wall dive.
We watched an octopus scurry along the reef.
We spotted a red-tipped sea goddess.
We sat in pure darkness for three minutes at the bottom of the ocean to complete our night diver certification while bioluminescence sparkled in the bubbles of our exhalations. Above us, drifting near the surface were hundreds of bioluminescent squids.


I now have 24 ocean dives. Four lake dives.
On the first night of my Advanced Open Water course a few weeks ago, my instructor gave us a buoyancy drill: Swim around the pool as close to the bottom as we could without touching it, while frog kicking.
I felt as smooth and sleek as a missile, inches from the bottom, steadily moving through the water with my arms crossed at my chest. Some of the other students bobbed and sank, arms flailing—the same way I had just a few months earlier.
At the surface, the instructor made us say something we could improve on one by one. I said something about my kicks still feeling a little awkward. But after everyone went, he said only one student swam with near perfect buoyancy control.
“And she just got back from a week of diving in the Bahamas,” he said with a smirk. “So I wouldn’t really call that fair to the rest of you.”
I smiled so big I thought my cheeks would split.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be the kind of person who can whole-ass just ONE thing.
Still, there’s been something about settling down in just one place that has made it feel more possible to pursue hobbies and interests fully.
For the first time in eight years, J and I have signed a lease for a second year.
When you’re not worried about packing up your life every 9-12 months and making a new community from scratch, it turns out you can do things like bikepack, scuba dive, paddleboard, and own a horse—while still having time to go to the gym, cook dinner, and write.
Sure, life is full. I’m looking forward to the longer days of summer and a little more PTO. But there’s still time to try and whole-ass as much as possible.
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You are very impressive, an inspiration.