Rapids, Rope Bridges, and Realizations: A Travel Story

When it comes to adventurous outings, my usual response is "no." Then, I pause — for a long moment (maybe even a week?) — and reconsider. During our cruise in Jamaica, we had the opportunity to go jungle river tubing through some rapids. Even though I had strongly protested this idea — at least, silently in my head — I agreed to it outwardly. I don’t like to let fear dictate my every decision, and after some careful research, I felt (mostly) certain that I wouldn’t die.

As we rode the cramped bus to the starting point, my nerves were rattled. (Was it the twisty roads or my growing anxiety?) I began to overthink every little detail. Should I wear my sunglasses? Keep my sandals on? What about my jazzy, ultra-cool wide-brimmed hat? John had to reassure me multiple times that anything lost would be easily replaced. I don’t know about you, but the higher my anxiety rises, the more I latch onto the smallest things and start to panic about them. In the end, I decided to leave behind my favorite sunglasses and let fate take care of the rest.

It didn’t help that our cheerful tour guide shared stories of James Bond movies filmed in Jamaica — with real crocodiles. I couldn’t help myself, and asked point-blank, “Dude, are there crocs where we’re going?” He adamantly declared there were none, but in my mind, I thought, "Well, at least none THAT WE KNOW OF."

When we arrived, we tumbled out of the van and were handed life vests and tubes. Then came the Indiana Jones-style rope bridge with wobbly slats that swayed with each step. You had to brace your core, or you’d fall in an instant. It was, without a doubt, the longest bridge of my life!

Afterward, we hiked a good distance to our starting point. Our river guide, Elvis (I swear that was his name!), kindly carried my tube for me. By this point, my anxiety was building, but I refused to turn back. Elvis could tell I was starting to lose it. He helped John into his tube first and then gently coaxed me into mine. Just before I climbed in, though, I managed to wipe out spectacularly. One second, I was standing; the next, my feet slipped, and I went down, face-first. As I was about to crash into the rocky riverbed, Elvis leapt into action and saved me. (Thank you, thank you very much.) I was physically fine except for a banged up knee, but thoroughly embarrassed. My nerves had gotten the best of me once again, and I felt frustrated, mostly at myself, for letting my anxiety take over and spoil the moment.

However, here’s where the growth happened: I allowed myself to feel that self-judgment, without arguing with it, and I thought, “Yep, I’m an anxious person, and that’s okay.” Then, I climbed into the tube and went with it. Overall, the experience was incredible, even though Elvis warned us about an upcoming stretch where we might flip over. Thankfully, we didn’t, but the anticipation certainly added to the excitement.

Once we were back on the beach, the relief I felt was overwhelming. But, naturally, my anxious mind started up again. What if my scraped knee got infected from the jungle river water? Surely there were parasites in it, right? My brain wouldn’t quiet down, but at that point, there was nothing left to do. John listened patiently as I shared my fears and promised me once again that everything would be fine.

But here’s the thing: we can’t truly know what’s ahead. In the past two years, I’ve had too many days where what seemed like an ordinary day turned into something far from it. One moment, everything is fine, and the next, it’s not. What I’ve learned is that I can’t control the outcomes, but I can handle them. True peace comes from understanding that who we are at our deepest level cannot be broken.

The rest of the day unfolded beautifully. We shared a smoky plate of jerk chicken, let the sun dry our river-damp clothes, and made plans for a fancy dinner that evening. My knee (and ego) still stung from the fall, but I had survived. More than that—I had let go, just a little, and trusted that I could handle whatever came next. Later, when we returned to our cabin, I went to wash my face and noticed a small tube of antibiotic ointment placed neatly on my side of the sink. John had left it there without a word. It was such a simple gesture, yet it felt like everything—like love, like reassurance, like proof that even when anxiety follows me, I am not alone.

May each of us find the antiseptic for our souls when we need it most, and let the river wash away our fears, for underneath it all, we are already whole.

Inward & Onward,