“Each of us is born with a unique life purpose.”
I remember my forty-fourth birthday pretty well. I sat in a pontoon on Christie Lake, watching a water skier zip by. I wasn’t in a celebratory mood—if anything, I just felt incredibly blah. My days had become pretty routine. I had a sales job I actually liked at the time. I was traveling, meeting new people, and learning about sales. Life wasn’t bad at all—it was just ho-hum.
Another boat went by. I reflected on my life. I thought back to some happy times and remembered moments of joy: getting married, buying a tiny house, building a bigger house, having kids, and moving into yet another bigger house.
My mind drifted way back—all the way back to my teen years. I remembered an unbridled feeling of joy. It was a joy unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.
Barefoot water skiing.
You see, that sport was a crazy passion of mine. I absolutely loved the feeling of skimming on the water behind a boat with nothing between me and the water. It was a skill that no other female on the lake could match. This meant I skied with guys—and that was more than fine by me! Barefoot water skiing was the great equalizer for me. For most of my life, I had struggled to fit in and be like everyone else. I started losing my hearing in elementary school and received my first hearing aid at age nine. I hated being different. I hated being hard of hearing. I hid my hearing aid every chance I could and never wore it in the summer.
One August day, my life took a very different turn. I took a couple of barefooting runs around the lake, and during one run, I decided to cross the wake. I had done it once before with success and wanted to try it again. I told my friend to go a little faster than usual so the wake would be flatter and easier to cross. My foot caught in the wake and I cart-wheeled into the water. In an instant, I went from hard of hearing to deaf.
Oh yeah, life took a very different turn.
When I climbed into the boat, I could no longer hear my friends’ voices. Their lips moved, but no sound came out. Hmmm, maybe my ears were just temporarily filled with water.
I kept hoping I would get my hearing back, but as it turned out, being deaf was here to stay. On the morning I was getting ready to leave for college, I broke down crying at the door.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asked.
“I can’t hear anything anymore.”
My mom started crying too. “You don’t have to go to college,” she said. “You can stay home and get a job.”
But staying home was not what I wanted. I had already spent a year at a local community college and I was lonely. I wanted more—but I didn’t know what I wanted. Living away from home seemed to be the answer.
When I arrived on campus, I discovered I was placed in a dorm with other deaf and hard of hearing students. I was not happy. I marched down to the information desk and demanded to be moved to a “normal” dorm.
“Give it a try,” my mom urged. “You might make some new friends here.” (Moms are always right—I met my husband!)
I didn’t adjust very well at first. I spent my days struggling in the classroom trying to lipread my professors. I spent my nights crying. I was uncomfortable around people whose hands were flying with American Sign Language.
For the first few months following my sudden plunge into deafness, I was frustrated and bitter. I hid my feelings because it was very difficult to talk about it.
One morning, I had an epiphany: I could continue to struggle, mourn, and grieve, or I could change my attitude and become the best possible deaf person I could be. I made my decision. I was going to embrace the Deaf Journey. I slapped my hearing aid on my right ear, put my hair up in a ponytail, and walked out the door. I had never shown my hearing aid in public before. That decision changed everything for me.
This reminds me of the metamorphosis that a caterpillar goes through to become a butterfly. The caterpillar thinks his life is over. In reality, the end of being a caterpillar is simply the beginning of a beautiful life as a butterfly.
(And what do you know, butterflies don’t have ears—they’re deaf!)
Because of that metamorphosis, I ended up meeting some really awesome deaf and hard of hearing people, and I learned American Sign Language. I slowly abandoned barefoot water skiing and stopped when I was twenty-four. The last time I put my feet on the water was just once after my oldest child was born. I was twenty-seven. From then on, my feet never touched the water again until I tried barefooting the day before my forty-fourth birthday. I was over 200 pounds and very out of shape.
So there I was on my birthday, thinking back to the old passion I used to have for the sport. I had dreams back then. I wanted to compete in barefoot tournaments. I contemplated colleges with water-ski programs. I imagined myself barefooting in water skiing shows.
None of that ever happened.
While I was sitting in the boat, tears began to fall. I was filled with regret. Why didn’t I pursue the sport while I was younger? Why didn’t I appreciate barefooting when I could still do it? Forty-four seemed so ancient for such an extreme sport. Suddenly, a thought hit me—I probably would never barefoot water ski again. I was too old, too overweight, and too out of shape, I thought. The tears just fell harder.
I went back home to my ho-hum life.
As I was cleaning out my email box several weeks later, I noticed an email from my husband with a TODAY Show link. The segment featured Judy Myers, a sixty-six-year-old competitive barefoot water skier with a shock of blond-white hair. I clicked “play” and watched the “Old Lady” glide on the water.
Sixty-six years old.
What’s more, she took up the extreme sport at the age of…fifty-three.
Wait a minute—I was only forty-four.
As I replayed the video, tears began to fall, this time with hope. If this sixty-six-year-old woman could enjoy the sport, surely I could get back on the water again.
When I connected with Judy through Facebook, she invited me down to Florida to take a lesson at a barefoot water ski school. I booked the trip during the kids’ spring break.
I was nervous when I arrived at the World Barefoot Center in Winter Haven, Florida. Judy was all smiles and she led me to the dock. Just getting into a wetsuit was a workout. I was very much out-of-shape and carrying a lot of extra pounds. I got into the boat with four other skiers who were very experienced.
Keith St. Onge, the two-time World Barefoot Champion and our instructor, invited me to go first. I shook my head. I just wasn’t ready. My nerves were too jangled.
The other skiers took turns doing tumble turns on their backs, lifting one foot in the air, and skiing backwards on their feet. I was amazed. I had never seen anyone barefoot water ski backwards, much less a woman over sixty who skied with ease.
Then it was my turn.
I got in the water, gripped the boom, and the boat took off. The minute I put my feet in the water, time stood still. I was a teenager again. The smile on my face would have lit up a galaxy.
Fast forward to today—if you had told me as a teen that at the age of fifty I would be able to barefoot water ski backwards on one foot with my hands in the air, I would have laughed so hard I would have ended up with a hernia.
Since that pivotal moment, life was never the same. I was hungry for more, and I wanted to share what I had learned with others.
The biggest lesson on this journey to passion is this: We are capable of far more than we realize—and we can choose a passionate life at any age.
“There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.”
If you’re skeptical about this whole passion thing, I urge you to keep an open mind and to be willing to soak in new knowledge. Living a life that is rich with passion, joy, and fulfillment—I promise you, it’s worth it.