Entering the Rock Garden with a Sense of Adventure and Leaving with Shame

I was working at REI when a group of us went whitewater rafting.

It was one of those crisp, sun-drenched days and we were ready for adventure. The water was fierce, swollen with spring melt. Class IV and V rapids waited downstream, and I was equal parts terrified and thrilled. I gripped the paddle like my life depended on it—because, as it turned out, it did.

Mark was our guide. Confident. Calm. Seasoned. He knew the river. Knew what was coming.

Not long after we launched, he shouted, “High side!”

We were entering the rock garden—a boulder-strewn gauntlet of surging current. A collision was seconds away. The raft’s upstream side lifted as we scrambled to shift our weight. We moved fast—but not fast enough.

The water hit like a freight train.

I bounced with the force of each wave. My back bent over the edge of the raft. I felt the drag of the river clawing at me. My foot—wedged deep beneath the inner tube—wouldn’t release. I tried to kick. Nothing.

My head plunged under.

The life vest kept my torso near the surface, but it wasn’t enough. The current pinned my face just below the waterline. I thrashed, desperate for air, but the river didn’t care. It was stronger than me.

If my foot doesn’t release, I’m dead.

Sean—who I barely knew—grabbed my vest. With a single motion, he yanked upward with everything he had. My mouth broke the surface, gasping for air. A second rapid smashed into us. He lost his balance, landing hard on top of me. His face blurred above mine, distorted by water and fear.

I reached for him. I couldn’t move. I heard Mark’s voice through my helmet: “DON’T LET GO OF THE PADDLE!” It was brand new.

We were in the worst of it. If the raft flipped and I was still stuck, I would drown.

Mark spotted an eddy up ahead and veered us into it—a risky move, but our only shot. Sean tried again. This time, both hands. One last surge of his full body strength—“PULL!” Mark leaned in and grabbed him. Together, they hauled me back in.

My foot released.

My legs collapsed beneath me as I hit the floor of the raft. I coughed, sputtered, and came back to life.

Silence.

The water was still roaring around us, but within the boat, everything stopped. We floated, silent.

Mark navigated us to shore. Samantha pointed to our dry bags—still tied down like nothing had happened. She found a towel, then an emergency blanket, and wrapped it around my shoulders.

I was alive. I should’ve been celebrating!

But all I felt was shame.

Shame Overrides Celebration

My head dropped. My hands found my hips. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t cry. I just stood there, drowning in self-reproach.

How could I have been so careless? So stupid?
I KNOW better than to wedge my foot that far under the tube.
That mistake could’ve cost me my life—and theirs.

Sean interrupted my spiral.

“Hey,” he said.

I looked up. He was watching me—his eyes soft but alert.

“You okay?”

He was the new guy at REI. We hadn’t shared more than a handful of conversations. But now, this man had just saved my life.

Saving Me a Second Time

Years passed. We stayed friends. Sean went on to a career in law enforcement—a path that brought him face to face with humanity’s darkest corners. He works with abductors, pedophiles, sociopaths. Things most of us never see.

Through that work, he learned about EMDR Therapy.

So when I called him a few years ago—my voice frayed, hollow—he could tell I was unraveling.

“Make an appointment,” he said. “EMDR. Do it now.”

I did.

And it changed everything.

Maybe This Is What Letting Go Looks Like

We talk a lot about letting go—as if it’s something we can just do. But letting go isn’t about pretending the scary things never happened. It isn’t about forgetting the near misses or overriding the shame.

Letting go is acknowledging that things went wrong… and choosing not to carry the blame that was never ours to begin with.

Letting go means recognizing that even smart, capable, careful people can make mistakes—or be caught in something they couldn’t control.

Letting go is learning to rewrite that inner script—the one that says you should’ve known better, you’re so stupid, you almost ruined everything. What were you thinking?

It’s not easy. But it is possible.

Sean saved my life once in the raft. And again over the phone. I hope this blog saves someone else.