[Sunday Strokes] A River Trip and 'A Poem in Three Parts'

A transformative Salmon River journey teaches self-advocacy, mirrored in Nadia Waheed's triptych. Discover how stepping away from the noise of daily life can help us hear our own truths.

The steady rhythm of oars dipping into water filled my ears as I sat in the raft, taking in the vastness of the Salmon River before me. This was the beginning of the Salmon River Slowdown, a six-day rafting trip that would gently wash away the stress of my chaotic year and leave me changed.

Eleven women, most of us strangers to each other, came together for this adventure guided by forest therapy coaches Angie Stegall and Sylke Laine. Our goal was simple yet profound: to slow down, reconnect with nature, and in the process, rediscover ourselves. As we pushed off from the shore that first morning, leaving behind our phones, internet, and the constant buzz of modern life, I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. I had no idea then how these six days would challenge me to confront my limitations and learn to embrace my authentic self.

Our days fell into a natural rhythm. As we drifted down the river, our skilled guides masterfully handled the navigation and rowing, allowing us to fully immerse ourselves in the stunning landscape. Sometimes we'd face rapids that got our hearts racing, other times we'd float peacefully through calm stretches. In the evenings, we'd set up camp on sandy beaches, our tents little spots of color against the vast wilderness. Lying in my sleeping bag each night, listening to the constant murmur of the river, I gradually felt the layers of stress begin to peel away.

This trip wasn't all serene moments and beautiful scenery, though. For me, it became an unexpected journey of self-discovery, especially as someone newly diagnosed as autistic and still figuring out what that meant for my life. The river, with its constant flow and changing moods, became both a challenge and a teacher. It pushed me to face my fears, learn to ask for what I needed, and ultimately, to accept the unique way I experience the world.

When I arrived, I realized what I needed most was slow silence. My summer had been tumultuous. I struggle with working for myself and working from home when the kids are home for summer. My husband got laid off from his job in July, and both my father-in-law and my husband experienced a series of scary health struggles. Add to that all the back-to-school chaos, and I felt the turmoil in my bones.

And if we're being honest, all of 2024 had felt like this. Ups and downs, walking through sludge, trying to make sense of my new reality as an autistic person, adjusting to life after finishing and publishing my book, and healing from a related trauma. It's been a year of reckoning, of reconfiguring, of readjusting, of rediscovering myself.

The week before the trip, I wasn't even sure I should be going away, completely disconnected from my family for so long. But away I went, because I knew it was the exact medicine I needed. I felt like this trip fell at a turning point. I knew there would be a before and an after. Some part of me knew that before was chaos and after would be stillness.

On the first full day, I made a mistake by getting on a boat with 7 people. The talking was near constant. I was there to connect with nature and enjoy the river and connect with myself, but instead, I had 6 other people all around me engaged in an epic four-hour-long talk session. As a deep introvert and autistic person, I only talk when I have something to say and if I feel completely safe. And, I am very senstitive to sound, so even if the conversation is interesting and the people lovely as these people were, the sound of the talking becomes to much. By lunchtime, I was nearly in tears, overwhelmed by the sensory experience.

I really hate asking for help, but I knew getting back on that 7-person boat was not an option. This moment became a turning point, not just for the trip, but for my self-understanding. Throughout my life, I've always tried to be easygoing, to put other people's needs ahead of mine, to be independent and not ask for help. But here, faced with the prospect of a miserable week or speaking up, I had to make a choice. I had to acknowledge the realness of my situation, get over the internalized gaslighting of myself that I "should" be able to handle this, and ask for help. 

I went to Sylke and asked if she would switch with me. For the rest of the trip, I had to strategically manage which boat I got on each morning, and every time I had to ask Angie or Sylke for help. This was a huge lesson for me. I learned that to make it through the whole week—and to truly benefit from this experience—I had to put myself first. I had to advocate for my needs, even if it meant inconveniencing others. I learned to speak up for my needs, to ask for accommodations. I learned that although my struggles are invisible, they are indeed real and valid.

This shift in perspective was transformative. It wasn't just about making it through the trip comfortably; it was about recognizing and honoring my own needs in a way I had never allowed myself to before. The river trip became a metaphor for life—just as each person on a raft contributes to its balance and stability, I learned that my well-being was crucial to the harmony of the whole journey. Sometimes, the best way to contribute is to recognize when you need a different seat, a moment of quiet, or a helping hand to steady you through the choppy waters.

This experience stood in stark contrast to an event I wrote about last week, where I struggled to stand up for what I needed during a business retreat. That experience left me overwhelmed and exhausted, unable to fully participate or benefit from the opportunity. The difference between these two events highlights my growth in self-advocacy and self-understanding. On the Salmon River, I was finally able to put into practice the lessons I had learned the hard way—that honoring my needs isn't selfish, but necessary for my well-being and ability to engage fully with the world around me.

It's been a fight with my body my whole life. My sensitivities, my overwhelm, my racing thoughts, my headaches. I try and try to fix myself, but now I'm left with something that can't be fixed. And that was the lesson of the river trip: to learn that I am not broken and don't need fixing, to accept who I am, admit to myself that I do have an invisible disability, and to learn that it's okay to accommodate that disability.

When I saw this week's artwork, A Poem in Three Parts in artist Nadia Waheed’s Instagram feed, I instantly connected with it. The triptych consists of six painted canvases. A nude yellow figure lays across the bottom three canvases in a flowing textured blue background. The top panels show a figure running her hands in a stream, a close-up of a face with swirling paint, and a duplicated nude figure both sitting and stretched out.

A Poem in Three Parts by Nadia Waheed

This artwork captures my river experience perfectly, mirroring the emotions I felt during my journey. The serene yellow figure stretched across the bottom three canvases embodies the peace and surrender I found once I learned to advocate for my needs. I see myself in this figure, laying in my tent, eyes closed, listening to the roaring rapids, finally at ease with myself. In these bottom panels, I see myself connecting with my body, feeling the gentle exhaustion from a day in the sun and water. I see myself there with only myself to worry about, no one to cook for or care for, with only my own needs to meet. The flowing blues surrounding this reclining figure echo the ever-changing river and the fluid nature of my journey, both physically and emotionally.

The figure running her hands through the stream resonates with the moments of pure joy and connection I felt with the river, those instances when I could simply be present and playful. The swirling paint around the close-up face reflects the initial chaos in my mind, gradually giving way to a kaleidoscope of new thoughts and curiosities, observations and poems that never made it to paper. Finally, the duplicated figure in the third panel—both sitting and stretched out—represents my transformation, from the hunched, overwhelmed person I was at the start to the one who emerged: open, expansive, and free.

My ADHD brain is typically on hyperdrive, reminiscent of the middle panel in Waheed's artwork. In that image, white dots flow from a glowing left eye, mirroring the constant stream of thoughts and ideas in my mind. Usually, I have to work hard to control these thoughts, to channel and focus them, which can be exhausting. But on this trip, I found I could let my thoughts simply be, flowing freely like the river itself. Those white dots of ideas weren't a chaotic mess to be contained, but rather an interesting display of curiosity. I allowed my mind to wander, noticing the changing colors of the river, thinking about the land and its history. My brain was still active (it always will be whether I like it or not), but now with a sense of wonder and calm. For once, the steady flow of thoughts wasn't a challenge to manage, but something to appreciate—much like the energetic swirls in Waheed's painting. Letting my mind roam free felt surprisingly similar to the gentler magic captured in that glowing eye and its emanating thoughts.

I let the river wash away the chaos of the last year, and I emerged anew. Like the pink figure in the last panel, I felt set free to take my place in the universe, to connect with my higher self above the mundane chaos of day-to-day living.

As we navigate life's rapids, we often forget the power of stillness and self-acceptance. My river journey taught me that true strength lies not in forcing ourselves to fit societal norms, but in embracing our unique needs and perspectives. Whether you're neurodivergent or neurotypical, taking time to disconnect from the chaos of daily life and reconnect with yourself can be transformative.

Art, like Waheed's A Poem in Three Parts, can serve as a mirror, reflecting our innermost experiences and helping us make sense of our journey. It reminds us that we are all part of a greater flow, constantly changing and evolving. As the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus said,

"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." - Hareclitus

This wisdom resonates deeply with both the river journey and the artwork. By accepting ourselves fully and learning to advocate for our needs, we can find our own rhythm within this ever-changing flow, allowing us to navigate life's challenges with grace and authenticity.

In our modern world, we are constantly bombarded with stimuli—endless tasks to be done, incessant messages on our phones demanding attention, the allure of social media beckoning us into mindless scrolling. This constant noise drowns out our inner voice and disconnects us from our true selves. My river journey served as a stark reminder of how crucial it is to step away from this cacophony and create space for silence, space for noticing. It's in these quiet moments, free from the distractions of our hyper-connected lives, that we can truly connect with who we are.

The stillness of nature and the stillness of art provides a space for self-discovery and renewal. Taking time for silence isn't just a luxury—it's a necessity for maintaining our mental health, nurturing our creativity, and staying true to ourselves in a world that often pushes us to conform.

In the stillness of nature or in art, in the quiet moments of self-reflection, we can find the strength to be who we truly are. It's in these moments that we learn to listen to our inner voice, to honor our needs, and to find beauty in our unique way of experiencing the world. The river and the art remind us: sometimes we need to step away from the noise to hear our own truth.