The wind howled fiercely as I attempted to balance on my paddleboard. The unpredictable gusts threatened to send me tumbling into the lake.

After a long journey to reach this lake, I was frustrated that the weather forecast had failed to mention the wind. I had envisioned a tranquil day gliding across the water.

Instead, I found myself anxious in a sheltered cove, contemplating my options: Should I remain there all day? Attempt to paddle along the shore? Or just abandon the day entirely?

I opted for cautious exploration, trying a bit of this and a bit of that, reassuring myself that I could return home if conditions worsened. They did, but that didn’t deter my resolve. Once I’m on the board, it’s hard for me to dismount, even when the experience isn’t enjoyable. The paddleboarding season is fleeting, and I don’t want to miss a moment, regardless of the circumstances.

I pressed on, braving the wind and maintaining my balance despite the choppy waters. I swallowed my irritation as waves crashed over me, soaking everything in their path. (Thank goodness for dry bags.)

By day’s end, I felt a sense of pride for my resilience in seeking joy amidst adversity. Yet, I was hit with an unexpected realization.

I was bored.

Sitting on the shore, I surveyed the landscape I had come to know so well, a lake I had frequented throughout the year. I could have visualized it all with my eyes shut. Wearing one of my three paddleboarding swimsuits—now a familiar ensemble—it suddenly felt as worn out as my old college sweatshirt. My meals were repetitive, my supplies unchanged, and my skills had plateaued.

In the weeks following my father's passing, paddleboarding had been exhilarating—a venture filled with excitement and passion. I preferred being on my board above all else; nothing compared to the sensation of the oar slicing through the water.

Suddenly, it all felt mundane. The thrill had faded away.

My shoulders slumped as I settled onto the ground. What once was an exciting pastime now seemed utterly commonplace.

I had been preparing for my father's death for quite some time. His health had deteriorated for years, and his condition had worsened since last summer.

Sepsis nearly claimed him in December, but he recovered, albeit in a fragile state. Soon after, he entered hospice care.

We braced ourselves for his loss in January. That month was a peculiar limbo, frozen in uncertainty. I left Christmas decorations up for comfort during a harsh season, reluctant to face my father’s impending death without that warmth and cheer, even if the holiday had long passed.

I found solace in jigsaw puzzles and surrounded myself with cozy blankets and plush pillows, creating a nest for the mourning process.

I was ready to fully embrace winter's darkness when my father passed. Oddly, I felt grateful for the timing; expectations were low, making it seem an ideal period for grief.

But my father surprised us all by making it to Valentine’s Day, then his birthday, which heralded the arrival of spring, and then Easter.

Time became a blur. At some point, I packed away the Christmas decorations and stowed the puzzles, preparing for a journey with no clear end. I even convinced myself that my father would join us for another holiday season.

Hospice faded into a distant background noise I learned to ignore.

Then, just after the summer solstice, the inevitable happened.

If given a choice, I would never have chosen summer for his farewell—or anyone’s, really. It’s a challenging time to grieve. The days stretch endlessly, demanding energy that a grieving person often lacks. Friends are away, leaving a sparse support system, and seasonal chores pile up (mowing, weeding, harvesting the garden), while life moves at an accelerated pace.

In contrast to winter, there’s no refuge.

Yet, surprisingly, once you yield to the season's demands, the whirlwind of activity helps. Who has the time to cry when there are countless tasks to tackle each day?

Diving into a summer hobby—new or familiar—means you truly lack time for tears. I began paddleboarding just two weeks after my father’s passing, right in the middle of our short season filled with alpine lakes. I hardly found time to journal or curl up in my cozy blankets. Instead, I focused intently on seizing every opportunity to be on the water.

As summer days filled with enjoyable activities unfolded, I had to streamline everything to maximize efficiency. My workdays became identical to pack in as many hours as possible, and my time at the lakes followed a strict rotation of locations, swimsuits, and meals.

This repetition became crucial, especially if I wanted the energy for growth or change in other areas—like mastering new paddleboarding skills. I had to clear mental space for significant developments, as grief, even without the tears, is exhausting.

Then, on that particularly blustery day, a shift occurred. All the habits and routines I had meticulously built suddenly felt hollow and devoid of meaning.

Is boredom a stage of grief? Even as I experienced it, I recognized it wasn’t officially listed as one. I had been discussing the stages of grief with my therapist for months, and boredom was definitely absent from the list.

Yet, here I was, confronted by it.

I’ve searched online countless times but found no definitive link between boredom and grief. However, I’ve discovered that grief can lead to severe burnout, especially for long-term caregivers like myself. The emotional intensity in those initial months (and beyond) can be draining. What truly resonated with me was the acknowledgment that caregivers often struggle to disengage from the constant doing, finding it hard to rest after the loss.

That’s exactly how I’ve felt since my father’s death. I’ve never felt this fatigued or pushed myself so relentlessly. I wonder if my boredom is genuine or merely a way to trick myself into taking a moment to simply… stop.

What’s the opposite of boredom? Perhaps that could clarify my feelings. Some might argue that stimulation or enthusiasm counteracts boredom.

I’d take it a step further: I believe the opposite of boredom is surprise. And that’s what feels painfully absent from my life right now.

Admittedly, deciding to confront one of my greatest fears and learn to paddleboard was a surprising turn for me. My father's death also caught me off guard; after months in hospice, I had started to believe things would remain unchanged indefinitely.

However, everything else in my life has felt painfully routine. The significant and the mundane alike. It’s as though I’m stuck in a loop, reminiscent of the movie Groundhog Day. Whenever something unexpected occurs, something that might break the cycle of repetition, I find myself right back where I began. A new career path leads to burnout. A hopeful new relationship devolves into familiar patterns of dysfunction. After years of nurturing relationships, we inevitably revert to the same old arguments that derail progress.

Isn’t life meant to be full of surprises? Shouldn’t our days brim with unknowns that challenge us to navigate?

Yet, it rarely feels that way for me. Even the most exhilarating experience—my time on the paddleboard—has become predictable. Even grief feels like an old, worn-out shoe, its sole wearing thin.

I can manage denial, anger, and bargaining. I’ve mastered depression.

But boredom? What am I supposed to do with that?

© Y.L. Wolfe 2024

(Please note that there are many scammers impersonating me—I do not solicit readers in the comment section.)

Y.L. Wolfe is a gender-curious, solosexual, perimenopausal, childless crone-in-training, exploring these experiences through writing, photography, and art. More of her work can be found at yaelwolfe.com. If you appreciate her writing, consider leaving a tip on Ko-fi.

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