My first brush with fly fishing came in the heart of winter. December 11th, to be exact. The world was still asleep when we left — the sun hidden, the air hushed, and soft flakes of snow drifting down like whispers. I was restless, unsure of what waited for me on the water. My mom had passed only four months earlier, and I was aching for something to steady me, to carry me somewhere outside of grief.

When we pulled off the exit to gear up, I felt doubtful. Maybe this wasn’t the refuge I needed. But looking back, my hesitation couldn’t have been more misplaced.

As a girl, I had always longed to fish. I still remember the spark of wonder catching planter Rainbows at a small trout farm just down the highway from where we lived. That was the extent of it, though — a childhood glimpse, nothing more. So when I stood riverside that first day, the learning curve felt steep, even daunting. Still, the moment I felt the tug and brought in my very first fish on a fly, I knew. That rush — that wild, unshakable joy — was what I had been chasing all along.

Even now, years later, I feel that same electric current each time a fish takes. It no longer feels like an escape; it’s become a grounding, a return. Fly fishing reminds me to be still and present, to observe closely, to honor humility and practice patience. It nudges me beyond the edges of my comfort zone and, in turn, makes me braver, steadier — a more confident woman.

I still have so much to learn in this craft, but I welcome the endless unfolding of it. The water, the casting, the quiet lessons. And always — always — the eternal thrill.