Not a boat person.

What living on water taught me about risk, rewriting my story, and learning to float without fear.

I often make reckless choices
with the excuse of “doing it for the plot”
but deep down,
I just want to live a life
worth telling.

And this one —
this is a good story.

I used to look at the boats
from the safety of the sidewalk,
wondering who the hell lives in those.
People who had it all figured out, I assumed
people who read instruction manuals
and knew the height of the ceiling,
the sound of water on metal,
the math of stability,
the rules.

I thought:
I am not a boat person.

Just like I once thought
I wasn’t a cat person.
Or an audacious person.
Or someone who could live in a foreign country
on her own
with nothing but two suitcases
and a heart full of hunger.

And yet
here I am.
In a boat.
In zone two.
In London.
Over the water,
under the stars,
with my past lives behind me
and my future waiting to be written
through the skylight above my couch.

I said that word with confidence —
skylight
even though I didn’t really know what it meant
until I laid beneath it,
watching the moon slice open the dark
like a secret.

I applied to live on this boat
thinking they’d never choose me.
That they’d know
I wasn’t the kind of person who does this.
But maybe the kind of person
who lives in a boat
is just the kind of person
who says yes
before she’s ready.

And that,
I know how to do.

So I came.
No guarantees.
Just faith.
Faith that I would learn.
That the floor would be steady.
That I wouldn’t get sea sick.
That I would get over my boat fear.
That I’d figure out how everything works.
That I’d become the kind of woman
who looks at water
and thinks,
I belong here.

And now?
I float.
I write.
I walk the canal at dusk
wrapped in wind and confidence.
I watch the overground train pass in the distance,
the red buses across the bridge,
and feel London folding itself around me
like an embrace I had no idea I was aching for.

Victorian chimneys beside glass towers.
The modern and the ancient
coexisting like all my versions.
The girl I was,
the woman I’m becoming,
the poet
and the endless possibilities in between.

And I think:
I used to stand behind glass,
looking out at the world I wanted.
Now I am in it.

This boat is not just a place.
It’s a portal.
A confession.
A declaration that I am not here to play small.
That I am willing to live the life
people only dare to daydream.
That I have audacity enough
to do the unimaginable.

I used to keep dreams in jars
on high shelves,
sometimes out of my reach,
until one day I realized
that dreams don’t mean shit
if they never leave the harbor.

This is not about boats.
It’s about trust.

Believing that there must be
a kind of love
that doesn’t leave.
A future that allows breath,
without worrying about money,
feeling fully safe.
A business model that supports my soul,
every time I change my mind
and decide to become something else,
someone else.
A London house with soft lighting
Victorian style
English cottage decor
all in my colour palette
a garden with big doors facing the living room
walls filled with art
and books that whisper my name.

And if I can dream all that
from a floating house
lit by candles
and certainty carved from chaos —
I can dream anything.
And if I can dream,
why cant I have it?

I am not fearless.
But I am faithful.
To the map I’m drawing by hand.
To the wild voice inside me
that dares to say:
“I don’t need the ground to see it, or to jump.”

Because confidence isn’t born in safety.
It’s sculpted
in risk.
In yes.
In the dizzying beauty of not knowing
and choosing anyway.

Most people want the magic
but won’t let go of the shore.
They want change
but ask it to arrive
with instructions,
a GPS signal,
and a refund policy.

But I’ve learned —
if you want to live something
you’ve never lived before,
you have to become someone
you’ve never been.
You need to be willing to surprise yourself
to let go of control
and find comfort in chaos.

So now,
I sit with tea in my hands,
watching the water reflect the city,
feeling both terrified
and entirely alive.

And every time I look up through the skylight,
I am reminded:
perspective is everything.
And the stars —
they were never that far away.
That life I want is nothing
but possible.
My most audacious dreams
are delusional
but that doesn’t mean they will not come true.
I can live so many lives in one,
I can become so many things I’ve never thought about,
that I never imagined I could be.
Everything can change very fast.

And I am no longer afraid of the water,
because I am learning how to sail
my ship.
You don’t get desperate
when you trust yourself.

I am not a boat person.
I am a becoming person.
And I will keep becoming
until the day I write the final word
on the story I lived
because I dared.

And maybe,
this is what it means
to steer your own life.

To be the plot twist.
To be the tide.
To be the captain
and the storm.
To be the woman
who said yes
before she was ready.
And discovered
she was always ready.
She just needed
to jump.