You don’t need to be ready to begin

Ready or Not, Ready Enough

I didn’t feel ready.

Not for the spring water temps. Not for the distance. Not for everything this swim would ask of me.

But I went anyway.

Because sometimes, waiting to feel “ready” is just another way of hiding.

And I could feel myself trying to hide! The weather looked rough. It was Mother’s Day weekend. Despite months of planning, coordinating schedules, and arranging travel to get my crew here, when push came to shove, all I wanted to do was stay home and enjoy time with my family.

We’re all familiar with the countdown to kick off a game of hide and seek and the familiar refrain: “Ready or not, here I come…”

Somewhere along the way, I realized how often I let hesitation hold me back. I’d watch others try things that I quietly longed to do—but didn’t feel prepared for.

So I started showing up before I felt ready. Not recklessly, but with curiosity.

And I discovered something: You don’t have to feel ready to begin. Sometimes, beginning is the only way you’ll realize you’re ready.

What I’ve learned—again and again—is that idea takes hold, it’s worth listening. Not every idea demands action. But the ones that pass the gut check—the ones aligned with your values— deserve the next small, intentional step.

Even if fear is present. Especially if fear is present.

Because if you stay stuck in fear, you risk staying stuck in a life that doesn’t reflect your deepest values.

This swim was another case of “ready or not”— it’s happening.

We ended up starting much later than anticipated. I didn’t want to know the water temp ahead of time—I never do (I don’t want to greet the water with any preconceived notions of how it will feel). After weeks and months of cold plunges, it felt fine, but I knew I needed to keep moving. The first strokes in a long stretch of water with no walls to interrupt my flow felt fantastic. But the doubts immediately crept in: how long can you keep this up?

Then muscle memory took over: ski, wing, whoosh, the rhythm of breathing. The clouds parted, the wind died down and the sun shone on my back for at least a portion of the swim. When we passed the I-5 bridge, the clouds opened up, the rain came down and I felt like I was in a washing machine. The familiar dialogue between determination and discomfort began.

In that space between resisting and surrendering, I found what I always do when I push past “not ready” into “doing anyway”: a clarity that arrives only through action.

You don’t have to be certain. You just have to be honest.

Honest about why you’re going. Honest about what matters. Honest enough to say: “I don’t know if I’m ready. But I’m willing to see what happens.”

I’m eternally grateful to my crew for allowing me to be honest in those moments leading up to the swim. And for being willing with me—willing to support me, no matter what. Again and again, I’m reminded how much we (all of us) need each other.

That’s how permission works. Not all at once. But in motion. Stroke by stroke.

With love from the deep,

Shannon

P.S. Who needs to hear this? Please forward it to them!

P.P.S. I shared more about the swim at this week’s Q&A inside The Water’s Edge. If you’re curious, dive in!