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There is nothing more foreboding, nothing that I hate more than putting my feet down into deep water. How can I possibly fathom what lies beneath? A prehistoric shark? A stinging jellyfish? Something… worse. Perhaps a severed arm floating in the murk. Stretching down, it feels like the water will swallow your face. The vastness seems endless… until it doesn’t. When I put my feet down into deep water after the pummeling of a storm, I felt them scrape against a rough surface—a firm foundation, a place to stand and rest.  Whether the storm is literal or metaphorical, we all need a foundation—something other than ourselves—to stand on and rest. Victor Frankl wrote about this in Man’s Search for Meaning. He observed the suffering in concentration camps, and noticed that those who survived with their souls intact found something other than themselves to provide meaning and purpose. Not tidy answers. Not pat explanations for their suffering. Rather, an ineffable sense of Love - something beyond themselves - that sustained them through profound suffering (Frankl, 1946/2006) I am fortunate that my 2025 looked nothing like Frankl’s 1945.  Viktor E. Frankl Institute of America. (n.d.). The life of Viktor E. Frankl. ViktorFranklAmerica. https://viktorfranklamerica.com/viktor-frankl-bio/ Still, in 2025 I found myself in a place where my usual self-care routine—exercise, journaling, and boundaries—stopped working. Perhaps you find yourself there too. What kept me afloat was counterintuitive. I needed to stretch my feet down into deep water. Instead of my usual habits, I took my own advice around second-order change: “If what you are doing isn’t working, try something else” (Diaz, 2025, 104). For me, putting my feet down into deep water looked like this: I needed to stop:
I needed to stop allowing my mind to circle circle circle in reactivity, what ifs, and problem solving mode - I’m so good at problem solving mode. I needed to go deep:
Practically, putting my feet down into deep water looked like this:
 Now I can feel the sand beneath my toes. Grounded, not because I controlled the waves, but because I stopped resisting them. I inhale through my nose, and exhale slowly through pursed lips, ensuring the exhale is longer than my inhale. Then I open my eyes and look around. I remind myself to put on my “writer-lens” and notice my surroundings to describe them. This serves as a form of grounding that feels meaningful to me. The mundane became enchanted: navy velvet curtains, imperfectly hanging over my windows, dark academia aesthetic intact—imperfection embraced, perfection surrendered. Then I move my body—not as a self-care checkbox, but to inhabit my midlife self fully: discovering tight shoulders, upper back, hips. Stretching through the tension that forms from clinging to the illusion of control. All of this takes 15 minutes. Afterward, I am ready—not just superficially, but deeply—to step back into the water. To smile authentically at the people I carry with me, knowing my energy has been restored not by distraction or habit, but by facing the depth with my feet grounded on my firm foundation. What will you do in 2026 to put your feet down into deep water? Works citedFrankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning (R. W. Lively, Trans.). Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946)
White Diaz, E. (2025). Discover, connect, respond: A practical approach to trauma-informed instruction. Seidlitz Education.here to edit. “Put your oxygen mask on first,” they say. “Sure. Sure. Of course. Of course.” Box checked. Exercise regime humming. Journaling practice in place. Boundaries—well-established. But…but…2025. On December 31st, I might resurrect the Honduran tradition of “burning the old year.” Crafting a mannequin—always a man, for some reason—and setting it aflame to usher in the new. It seemed violent at the time. But now it feels just right. I don’t know about your last year, but my 2025 deserves to be burned.  El Mundo. (2020). La quema del tradicional “Año Viejo” [Photograph]. STN Honduras. https://stnhn.com/la-quema-del-tradicional-ano-viejo/ Friends, witnessing my 2025, say: “Elise, it’s been a year. Take care of yourself.” Sure. Sure. Of course. Of course. But this morning, I realized I was tired. Deep-tired. Limbs heavy, brain fog thick. The kind of tiredness that comes after a day at the ocean—a day of drifting, rolling with waves under a brilliant blue sky. Then—without warning—a monster wave rises. Just enough for a quick moment of panic. You’re flung, twisted, sandy hair in your eyes, salt stinging your nose, swimsuit lodged in the wrong place. Out of breath. Then—another wave. And another. And another. The deluge finally slows. You take stock. The shore is too far. And besides, you’re carrying people with you. You are always carrying people with you.  So, what to do?
“Just keep swimming,” Dori, the fish, once said. And so we do. Stroke. Breathe. Repeat. But we don’t realize how tired we are, how the joy of floating has slipped away. We are in danger of sinking - and we don’t ever realize it. And what about those we carry with us? Then a voice, distant, urgent: “Put your feet down!” “What? Are you crazy? It’s so deep!” “Just do it!” For some reason I trusted the stranger and put my feet down into deep water. And there it was. A sandbar, far from shore. Relief coursed through me. Limbs loosened. Chest expanded. Exhale long and full. Self-care alone was not enough after the pounding. I needed solid ground. A moment to rest. To breathe. To gather strength before the waves came again. (What does it mean to “Put Your Feet Down Into Deep Water”? To be continued…) |
AuthorElise White Diaz is an Educational Consultant with Seidlitz Education, specializing in trauma-informed multilingual education. 
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December 2025
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