Returning to the River

There are places that become woven into our story. Places that hold pieces of who we were, who we loved, and who we imagined we would become. For me, Banks, Idaho is one of those places.

It was where I learned to love whitewater kayaking. It was where I spent countless summer evenings around campfires, built meaningful relationships, and challenged myself in ways I never expected. It was where I experienced excitement, fear, joy, and heartbreak. 

For the past five summers, I made that pilgrimage with the same person. We traveled together in my van, built traditions around the river, and fell in love not only with Banks, but with the life we were creating together.

This year, after several years without NFC, the event finally returned. I had been looking forward to it for a long time, imagining it would feel like coming home. Instead, it felt completely different. This year, I came alone. The event had changed. The people had changed. And I had changed.

There is a quote, often attributed to Heraclitus, that says:

“No one ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and they’re not the same person.”

As a river person, I’ve always loved that quote. Rivers are constantly changing. Water levels rise and fall. Rocks shift. Trees come and go. Every rapid is different from the last time you ran it.

For the past six years, my life revolved around a relationship that was deeply intertwined with kayaking. He introduced me to the sport and taught me how to kayak. We traveled together in my van. We discovered Banks together. We built a life around rivers, adventures, and summer road trips that always seemed to lead back here.

Banks wasn’t just a place we visited. It was part of our identity. Walking back into that world without him felt surreal. Every rapid, every campsite, and every familiar face carried memories of a life I thought I would still be living. I wasn’t just attending NFC alone. I was confronting a version of my life that no longer existed. There were moments I felt like an outsider. These were his friends. His community. His world.

Or at least, that’s the story I kept telling myself. I questioned whether I even belonged there. I questioned whether I belonged on the river. I questioned whether I was capable without him.

For years, he had been the person who made me feel safe while kayaking. I had gone through difficult, sometimes frightening experiences with him by my side. Looking back, I realize how much those experiences created a trauma bond. Fear became intertwined with love. Adventure became intertwined with dependence.

At the same time, he pushed me constantly. Sometimes beyond what I wanted. Sometimes beyond what felt right. I trusted him, sometimes more than I trusted myself, and gradually stopped listening to my own instincts. Somewhere along the way, my confidence became tied to his presence rather than my own abilities. Over time, I stopped asking what I wanted. Our life became centered around his dreams, his goals, his adventures. Before I realized it, I lost touch with my own voice.

Leaving that relationship wasn’t simply about leaving a person. It was about choosing the possibility of becoming myself again. 

But healing isn’t as simple as making one courageous decision. 

Sometimes you leave because you know it’s the right thing to do – and then discover that you have no idea who you are without what you’ve left behind. 

Returning to the river without him meant confronting all of that at once.

That’s where I found myself at NFC. Not free. Not confident. Not transformed. Just uncomfortable. Sad. Scared. Grieving. Part of me felt like I had failed. This wasn’t how my story was supposed to end. I didn’t get what I wanted. I wanted the relationship to work. I wanted to build a life together. I wanted us to grow old exploring rivers and mountains.

Instead, I was sitting beside the same river alone.  For a while, I believed that meant I had lost. 

But somewhere during the week, I began to realize something. The purpose of this trip wasn’t to find myself. It was to feel everything I had been avoiding. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The fear. The attachment. The loss. Sometimes healing isn’t about replacing pain with happiness. Sometimes it’s about finally allowing yourself to experience the pain you’ve been trying to outrun.

One conversation especially stayed with me. A friend looked at me and simply said, “I wish you could see yourself the way everyone else sees you.” Those words stopped me. Because I realized how much of my experience had been shaped by the stories inside my own head. That I didn’t belong. That I wasn’t good enough. That everyone saw me as an imposter. That I couldn’t do this without him. None of those stories came from the people around me. I created them. The mind is remarkably good at convincing us that imagined judgments are objective truth. But they aren’t.

For the first time in a long time, I gave myself permission to kayak on my own terms. I didn’t paddle every day. I didn’t feel the need to prove anything. I didn’t run the Class IV and V rivers I had paddled in the past simply because I had done them before. Instead, I gave myself time. I gave myself grace. I spent hours laughing and playing on Class II and III sections with friends. I remembered that kayaking didn’t have to be about pushing harder or chasing the next level. It could simply be about being on the water. I was grateful just to be there. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

I don’t think I went to NFC to find myself again. I don’t think that’s what happened at all. I went because there were experiences and emotions I still needed to move through. This season of my life is teaching me lessons I never asked for. How to let go of control. How to loosen my grip on attachment. How to move through fear instead of allowing it to define me. How to trust myself. These lessons don’t arrive all at once. They unfold one uncomfortable experience at a time. NFC didn’t give me closure. It didn’t magically restore my confidence. I didn’t leave feeling like a completely different person. But I did leave knowing something important. 

Growth isn’t always measured by feeling stronger. Sometimes it’s measured by your willingness to keep showing up anyway. To return to the places that hold your memories. To grieve what was. To honor what you’ve learned. And to trust that, little by little, you’re becoming someone who no longer needs another person to feel whole.

Just like the river, life keeps moving forward. It simply keeps flowing, inviting us to move with it instead of trying to hold on to what has already passed. Growth rarely happens while we’re comfortable. It happens when we’re willing to sit with uncertainty long enough for something new to emerge.

Healing isn’t always about feeling better. Sometimes healing is allowing yourself to fully experience what you’ve been trying to avoid. 

Maybe healing isn’t about becoming someone new. 

Maybe it’s about slowly letting go of everything that convinced you that you weren’t enough to begin with. 

Maybe that’s what this journey has been about all along.