What an Old Boat Taught me About Healing

We’d been looking for a bigger boat. I loved being on our sailboat alone—but with the two of us, plus the dogs? Yeah... not happening.

Viewing after viewing, and still no consensus. Until I saw her. A classic, custom-built motor yacht named the Eslo. She’d once been on the cover of Yachtsman magazine, and the images in the broker’s window promised something special. We made the appointment.

The morning of the viewing was cold and windy. The waters of the San Francisco Bay were choppy, as they often are.

The Eslo greeted us with a smell of musty diesel and decades-old dust, clinging to the embroidered curtains—once the pride of the previous owner’s wife. They were everywhere. The scent was equal parts adventure and abandonment. Just like the countless faded picture frames hammered to every wall like anchors of a life long gone.

But to us, she had good bones. And I couldn’t stop seeing her potential. She felt like a little wooden cabin on the water. Safe.

And so began our voyage with the Eslo.

Built in 1940, this 47-foot vessel had seen more than her fair share of boat life—and she needed a lot of work. A “labor of love,” as our marina neighbors called it. They weren’t wrong.

We thought we’d refresh the peeling paint and install a new oven. What I didn’t expect was that this restoration would become years-long project, and an unexpected part of my own personal healing.

At first, it felt overwhelming. The sheer size of the project. The physical strength it required. The constant problem-solving and mental resilience. But the further I got into restoring the wood, re-caulking, and bringing her back to her former glory, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about the boat.

One morning, with a sore back from the unnatural positions I had to bend my body in, it hit me: the work on this boat mirrored my own journey of healing from abuse and generational trauma.

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One Task at a Time

We bought the Eslo “as is,” which included 40-some years’ worth of stuff tucked into cupboards, hidden compartments, and makeshift storage spaces. Cleaning out my parents’ house after they passed, was nothing compared to this!

Then came the wood rot. Everywhere. And the layers upon layers of old decisions and neglect.

It was hard to know where to start.

So I started small.

I took down those hideous curtains. Hauled out garbage bags of old stuff. Tore the picture frames off the walls and repainted the walls. I tackled one piece of wood rot at a time. Every thing I did was a huge improvement, and made me feel accomplished. And I noticed something else: my nervous system began to settle.

It’s how trauma healing works, too.

You anchor into one thing you can manage.

You know there’s more to do, but you don’t have to do it all at once.

You don’t have to fix the whole boat—or your whole life—in a day.

Each step made the Eslo feel more like mine. And with every task, I gained not just skills—but trust in myself.

What You Tend, Grows

One of the most daunting projects was re-caulking the hull.

And like many trauma responses, my first instinct was to ignore it. I blamed the heat and dry weather for the widening gaps between her planks.

But eventually, I couldn’t look away.

With help from YouTube (thank you, internet), I taught myself how to caulk a wooden hull—with cotton and a chisel. Can you imagine?

Every hour of sweat, every ounce of care I gave her, deepened our connection. The more I tended to her, the more I grew to love her.

And the same thing was happening within me.

The physical work pulled me out of my head and into my body. The rhythm of the work brought me balance, peace—and pride.

Self-Respect in Action

Part of the process was learning to set limits:

• What I could do in a day.

• When to ask for help.

• When to rest.

I had to honor my capacity. Listen to my body and respect its “no.” To celebrate my “yeah me!” moments with a soak in the marina's hot tub under the palm trees. (Yes, we have a spa. Major perk.)

A Vessel for the Journey

The Eslo is 85 years old this year, and full of character. She’s weathered storms—and you can see it. But the wear doesn’t make her less worthy.

It makes her authentic.

It makes her remarkable.

And the same is true for you.

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Inspired by my journey with the Eslo and the book I am writing, I’m opening the doors to my The Inner Circle this fall: a support community for survivors of abuse and generational trauma.

If that speaks to you, you can read more about it on my Community page.

I'd love to welcome you aboard. ⚓️

The Eslo, on the cover of the Jachtsman