the finish line i couldn’t imagine

A few weeks before completing my circumnavigation, I was asked a series of questions about I expected the finish line to feel like.

On the surface, they felt like questions for a press release. Reading them now, they feel more like predictions.

They captured a version of me who was still looking toward the finish line rather than back on it. Someone who understood what was about to happen logistically but couldn’t yet understand what it would mean emotionally.

One answer kept pulling me back.

“I’m giving myself permission to simply be proud before rushing into whatever comes next.”

I smiled when I read it.

Apparently, I knew exactly what I would need.

Because what I completely underestimated wasn’t crossing the finish line. It was everything that came after.

For almost a year, life had been wonderfully simple. Not easy – but simple.

There was always another race to prepare for. Another weather briefing. Another watch. Another departure. Every decision had already been made by the rhythm of the race.

Like anyone doing something that consumes years of their life, I spent plenty of time imagining what it would feel like when it was over.

I imagined relief. I imagined pride. I imagined hugs on the pontoon. I imagined celebration.

Those things all happened.

What I didn’t imagine was freedom. Unlimited, unstructured freedom.

I used to dream about having complete control over my time again.
Then suddenly, I had it. And had absolutely no idea what do with it.

It’s funny how quickly a structure you occasionally resent can become something you quietly depend on.

Only a few days after the race, Jared and I found ourselves completely stuck trying to decide where to spend the next month together. The irony wasn’t lost on me. After navigating oceans and making countless decisions under pressure, choosing somewhere to simply exist felt impossibly difficult.

I wasn’t rushing into whatever came next. But I also wasn’t giving myself permission to simply stop.

Another answer caught my attention as I read my predictions on how I might feel.

“Both big and small. Proud that I’ve achieved something that’s been years in the making, relieved that I don’t have to go through the anxiety of another race start, and probably a little overwhelmed.”

That part turned out to be true. The overwhelm arrived before I even stepped ashore.

The moment the finish line came into view, the tears came with it like tidal wave. I couldn’t stop sobbing.

I still can’t fully explain why.

Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe it was loss. Maybe it was the realization that something I’d organized years of my life around was suddenly becoming a memory.

One thing my pre-finish self fully understood was this:

“There were days when completing a circumnavigation felt impossible, and other days when the miles disappeared beneath us. Somehow, both were true.”

Looking back, I think that’s true of any worthwhile goal.

The impossible part isn’t constant. Neither is the effortless part.

You simply keep showing up, one watch at a time, until one day you’re looking at a finish line you once thought was impossibly far away.

Crossing it didn’t give me the sense of completion I expected.

Instead, it gave me something far more valuable. Perspective.

The race didn’t suddenly make sense because it was over.

If anything, finishing was the moment I finally had enough distance to begin understanding what the journey actually meant.

I’m still unpacking that part.

And maybe that’s the real finish line – not the one stretched across the Solent, but the slow process of making sense of the miles behind you.

Author’s note: If you’re just joining me, this reflection continues where my previous post, finding my voice, losing my words - why I went silent while sailing around the world, left off. In it, I share why I stopped writing during the race—and why I'm finally ready to tell these stories.