For most of my life, fishing was simple. It was something I did without thinking too much about it. I would head out, set up by the water, and focus on catching trout. There was no deeper meaning behind it and no reason to question why I enjoyed it. It was just part of life something familiar, something routine.
If someone had asked me back then whether fishing had any impact on my mental health or wellbeing, I probably would have shrugged. I never really saw it that way. I didn’t see it as an escape or a form of therapy. It certainly wasn’t something I associated with healing. It was just fishing.
That all changed in the summer of 2017.
After the loss of our child, everything shifted. Life didn’t feel the same anymore. The things that once felt normal or enjoyable suddenly seemed distant, almost irrelevant. I found myself trying to get through each day rather than living it. There was a heaviness that followed me everywhere, and I didn’t really know how to deal with it.
During that time, I lost interest in a lot of things, including fishing. Something that had always been second nature to me became something I avoided. I didn’t have the energy for it, and I didn’t see the point. It felt like a part of my life that no longer fit into the person I had become.
But at some point, I decided to go back.
I can’t say it was a big decision or a turning point at the time. It was more of a quiet step something small I did without really expecting anything from it. Maybe I was hoping to feel something familiar again, or maybe I just needed to get out of the house. Either way, I found myself sitting by the water once more.
At first, nothing seemed different. I cast my line, sat in silence, and waited. But slowly, without forcing it, my thoughts began to surface. Being there, away from everything else, gave me the space I hadn’t realised I needed.
That was when things started to change.
Out there, with nothing but the sound of water and the natural world around me, I began to think about everything that had happened. Not in a rushed or overwhelming way, but in a calm, steady manner. It was as if the environment gave me permission to process things at my own pace.
Fishing became something entirely different from what it had been before.
Instead of focusing on catching fish, I found myself focusing inward. The quiet allowed me to revisit memories, thoughts, and emotions that I had been trying to avoid. And for the first time, I wasn’t running from them. I was sitting with them.
There was something about being surrounded by nature that made it easier. The gentle sound of water reaching the shore, the movement of the wind, and the birds singing in the background created a safe place for me, made me think of my upbringing in Shetland. It didn’t take anything away from what I was feeling, but it made it more manageable.
It helped me breathe.
Over time, I began to notice a pattern. Each time I went fishing, I came back feeling just a little bit lighter. Not completely healed, not suddenly okay but calmer. More settled. As though I had untangled a small part of grief going on in my head.
That’s when I realised that fishing had become something more than just a hobby.
It had become a way for me to cope.
Something as simple as sitting by the water, away from the noise of everyday life, gave me the opportunity to reset. In those moments, there were no expectations placed on me. I didn’t have to explain how I felt. I didn’t have to put on a front. I could just be there.
And sometimes, that was enough.
I also started to see that I wasn’t going fishing for the same reasons anymore. Catching fish became less important—almost irrelevant at times. What mattered was the experience itself. The time spent outdoors, the quiet, and the sense of space.
It was no longer about achieving something. It was about feeling something.
Fishing became my way of stepping away when grief felt overwhelming. It gave me a break from the constant pressure of thoughts and responsibilities. It allowed me to reconnect not just with nature, but with myself.
In a world that often feels loud and fast paced, those quiet moments became incredibly valuable.
There is something powerful about being still.
I learned that deal with grief doesn’t always come from dramatic changes or big breakthroughs. Sometimes, it comes from small, consistent moments. From allowing yourself the time and space to process things naturally.
Fishing gave me that.
It gave me a place where I didn’t feel rushed. Where I didn’t have to have all the answers. Where I could slowly work through things in my own way.
And perhaps most importantly, it gave me peace.
Not a permanent, everything is perfect kind of peace but a real, honest sense of calm. The kind that comes from being present in the moment and accepting where you are, even if it’s not where you want to be.
That’s something I never expected to find through fishing.
Looking back now, I realise how much my relationship with it has changed. What started as a simple activity has become something deeply personal. It’s no longer just about the water or the fish it’s about what happens within me when I’m there.
It’s about clarity.
It’s about reflection.
It’s about healing.
Even now, I don’t always go fishing with a plan. Sometimes I sit there and think. Other times I don’t think about anything at all. And both are equally important.
Because it’s not about what I achieve when I’m there it’s about what I take away from it.
Fishing has become my escape, but not in the sense of running away from life. Instead, it’s a place where I can face life in a quieter, more manageable way. A place where I can pause, breathe, and regain some sense of balance.
And that has made all the difference.
There are still difficult days. Moments when things feel heavy again, and the thoughts are harder to manage. But now I have something to turn to. Something that grounds me and reminds me that it’s okay to take things slowly.
That it’s okay to stop.
That it’s okay to just be.
For me, that place is by the water.
Standing there, surrounded by nature, I’ve come to understand something I never thought about before: peace doesn’t always come from changing your situation. Sometimes, it comes from changing how you spend your time within it.
Fishing taught me that.
It showed me that even in the middle of difficult circumstances, there are ways to find moments of calm. Ways to create space for yourself, even when life feels overwhelming.
And those moments matter more than we often realise.
Now, when I think about fishing, I don’t think about it as just a hobby. I think of it as something that helped me through the hardest time of my life.
Something that gave me a way to cope.
Something that helped me deal with grief and live with it.
It may seem simple from the outside just someone sitting by the water, waiting for a bite. But for me, it’s so much more than that.
It’s where I found peace.
.