(Part 1: Australia)

Most people go to Australia for adventure.

That was my plan too: travel the world, starting with Australia to become a scuba diver.

Why? Back then I was battling panic attacks—and honestly, why go to therapy when you can let the ocean be your therapist?

It was supposed to be the place to heal underwater, come up renewed, and keep moving forward. Simple.

What did I find instead?
Five surgical scars. Seasickness. A stunning ocean. God who did not leave me alone.
And, of course, sharks.
You know, the usual.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning.

The Plan Was Flawless (Until It Wasn’t)

I quit my job. Sold everything I owned. Built an Excel sheet that basically screamed: This girl has her life together.
God? Yeah… we weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

I was spiritually burned out, emotionally fried, fully living in the “you do you, I’ll do me” phase with the Lord. Still, I figured if I just moved—geographically, emotionally, existentially—I’d feel better.

So, of course, life threw a brick.

Days before my flight, during a quick checkup, the doctor dropped this bomb:
“You need surgery. Diving is off the table.”

I laughed. Out loud. Because clearly, this man didn’t understand I had already sold everything, quit my job, and bought my plane ticket.

No going back. No plan B.

I had to be on that plane.

But he wasn’t joking. Something about internal organs and underwater pressure not being best friends.
He suggested surgery in Uruguay—short recovery, advanced tech. Just enough time to still make the trip.

I blinked. “Book it.”
He blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. Now. You book the surgery—I’ll book the flight.”
Because who needs rest when you have panic and Wi-Fi?

Australia: Diving into Chaos

Somehow, it all worked.

I boarded my flight to paradise with five fresh scars, a stubborn will, and approximately zero spiritual awareness.
When I landed, the ocean sparkled. The lighthouse beam felt like a hug. I thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe I’ll finally feel peace again.

On day one, I climbed aboard a boat with my new crew.
And forgot my seasickness pills.
Cue an hour of impressive projectile vomiting while trying to smile through the nausea and shame.
So much for “strong first impression.”

Underwater Panic & Surprising Peace

Eventually, training kicked in. The ocean became my classroom.

Then came the moment—fifteen meters underwater, in the middle of a dive exercise.
Panic.
Sharp. Sudden. Full-blown existential crisis.
What am I doing? Why did I think this was a good idea? I sold everything. I have no backup plan. I’m insane.

I signaled frantically to my instructor to get me out of there. (And yes, I may have tried to punch him too.)
He signaled back: Nah.
(Okay, not his exact words—but close.)

Instead, he stayed right beside me. Locked eyes with mine. Signaled me to breathe. No words. No panic. Just quiet.
And somehow… it worked.

I didn’t bolt.
I didn’t implode.
I didn’t die.
I stayed.

Not because I was brave. But because I stopped fighting the moment.
And here’s the thing: after that dive, I never had another breakdown like that. Not one.

Saltwater Lessons

At the time, I wasn’t connecting any of this to God. No prayers. No Bible verses taped to the mirror. No worship playlists.

But looking back? I see Him all over that trip.
When fear hit underwater—He was there.
When three sharks appeared in a cave we weren’t supposed to enter—He was there.
When I had no clue what I was doing but kept going—He was there.

Not waiting for me to perform.
Not demanding the “right” words.
Just quietly protecting me while I was too stubborn—or too tired—to notice.

Ten Weeks of Saltwater and Sanity

The rest wasn’t just magical. It was messy. Exhausting. Hilarious.
Long training days. Diving with sharks, sea turtles, and fish straight out of Pixar.
I overcame obstacle after obstacle. I passed. I graduated. I got my certification.

Even my instructor was impressed—especially considering I started with a boatload of nausea and zero confidence.

But the biggest shift wasn’t the certification.
It was the quiet inside me.

For ten weeks, I lived by the ocean. Slept. Breathed. Slowed down.
No spiritual fireworks.
Just small moments of peace I hadn’t felt in years.

If You’re in a Silent Season…

Wounds heal. Seasickness passes. Even sharks swim away.
But what stays is the reminder: God never bailed on me. Not in the water, not in the silence, not in the years I tried to outrun Him.
And maybe that’s the real miracle—not that I learned to dive, but that I learned I was never really alone.

So,
If you’ve stopped trying.
If faith feels like a punchline.
I get it.
You’re not abandoned.
God doesn’t vanish when you doubt.
He carries you when you can’t walk.
He remains faithful even when you’re not sure you believe.