How I Accidentally Moved Onto a Boat (and Didn’t Lose My Mind… Entirely)

Burnout, bilge pumps, and the beautiful mess of saying yes to the unexpected.

Our lease was up at the condo, and since we already owned Bella Mia Dawn - a 47-foot sailboat - I looked at Frank and said,
“What if we just lived on the boat for a while?”
(Yup. That’s a real sentence that came out of my mouth.)

I had to talk Frank — the Captain — into it.
I made it sound casual, breezy.
“Just for the summer,” I promised.
“We’ll reset. It’ll be fun.”
(Famous last words. Right up there with, “What’s the worst that could happen?”)

The truth? I was toast.
Burned out.
Done peopling.
Done hustling.
Done trying to pretend I wasn’t exhausted.

We already had the boat. We needed a place to land - well, float. And I needed margin.

Space to think, breathe, and not answer a single email or text.

It was the easiest hard choice.
And yes, I probably should not have been making any life-altering decisions in that state of mind.

But against the Captain’s better judgment, we did it.
So Frank, Whitney (our little Goldendoodle and self-appointed marina queen), and I moved aboard Bella Mia Dawn… into about 500 square feet of floating chaos.

GULP.

Salon area of Bella Mia Dawn

And for a little while, I kept saying, “It’s temporary.” Even to myself.

I started working again. I started traveling. Every time I thought about moving back to land… it felt like too much, and I didn’t have a sense of peace.

So we stayed.

The truth, though? I did NOT adjust well.

Honestly, I wasn’t exactly thriving - I was somewhere between disoriented and downright cranky.

Boat life was a bigger shift than I expected.

And when winter came, it hit hard. I am a self-proclaimed weather diva ON land… let alone in a non-climate-controlled environment.

It felt like Narnia… the depressing part. The White Witch was ruling my moods, my mindset, and pretty much everything else.

Me… err.. sorry, the White Witch.

But oh… lest we forget… Aslan is indeed on the move.

I was grumpy, cold, and at times soaking wet.

Let’s just say - more than once - I might have had a bit of a fit:

“I CANNOT DO THIS ANY LONGER.” (As I was blow drying my hair and Frank was making a cup of coffee, and it flipped the electricity off. There is only so much electrical load a sailboat can handle… the things I have learned.)

My sweet husband looked a bit befuddled, unsure what to say or do that might help… only to get the electricity working again… and then move on. Good move, Frank.

I may have booked a hotel because it was raining.

Once for a few weeks. (True story.)

Weary of the dock, rain and walking Whitney…

I’m an Enneagram One - not a Three ;-) …so I don’t worry too much about what others think.

But in this case… yeah.

I’ve worried people would think we’d lost it.

That moving onto a boat was some unhinged midlife moment.

And maybe it was?

But sometimes, it’s in those unhinged moments that God shows up… in a beautiful, messy way.

It has not happened instantly.

It’s been a slow shift.

And I’ve come to accept that’s how Jesus often works.

It’s a slow refining.

Just look at some of the folks who had to wait:

• Noah built a boat for decades before a drop of rain fell.

• Abraham waited 25 years for the promised son.

• Joseph spent 13 years in slavery and prison before the dream came true.

• Moses wandered for 40 years before reaching the edge of the promise.

• David was anointed king, but waited years, hiding in caves, before wearing the crown.

• Elizabeth and Zechariah lived a lifetime with no child… until one day, they held John.

• Jesus waited 30 years before launching His ministry.

Slow doesn’t mean stuck.

Delayed doesn’t mean denied.

Refining takes time, and God isn’t in a rush.

A gradual acceptance of things I used to resist.

Letting go of "stuff" became more than just clearing out physical space.

It has become more of an internal uncluttering.

What happened is: life opened up in a weird, unexpected way. And I’ve said yes to it…and continue to.

What I didn’t know then was that this wasn’t just a shift in location.

It was a shift in me (isn’t that usually the case? I mean, wherever we go… there we are.)

The boat doesn’t have space for much, and I was already full of exhaustion, questions, and resentment I hadn’t named yet.

I was carrying disappointment.

Burnout.

Years of over-functioning in roles that looked impressive but left me running on empty.

I had said yes to too many things for too long.

Because I could (just because you can doesn’t mean you should). Because I was good at it. Because people expected me to.

The boat didn’t feel like freedom at first.

It felt like chaos.

Like letting go of the tidy life I micromanaged with calendar invites and a can-do smile.

But eventually, when things got still - and still is hard for me - it started to shift.

Not quickly.

Not magically.

But slowly, like something loosening its grip.

I started noticing what I missed.

And what I didn’t.

I started paying attention to how I spoke to myself in the silence. (Oh hey, Enneagram One inner critic — I see you.)

I started asking better questions - not just:

“What’s next?” but “What’s true?” and “What do I actually need?”

And God - faithful and patient as ever - is meeting me there.

Not in some Pinterest-perfect, inspirational quote kind of way.

But in the middle of my bad attitude, salty language, and the endless battle with moisture and mildew. He is present. Whispering things I hadn’t made space to hear in years… or maybe ever?

There was no “aha” moment. No mountaintop revelation. Just small things.

Like watching the sunrise from the cockpit with a blanket and Whitney curled up next to me.

Whitney loves boat life.

Or realizing hospitality had nothing to do with square footage or fresh flowers (even though you might find fresh flowers aboard Bella Mia... I do love my flowers).

Or finally noticing how much noise I had been living with - internally and externally -and how addicted I’d become to filling every quiet moment with a task, a meeting, or a scroll.

Boat life has stripped that down.

Not in a romantic, minimalism-is-magical kind of way. In a “where do I even store the paper towels” kind of way.

It was annoying.

Inconvenient.

And exactly what I needed.

There’s something holy about being forced to live within your limits.

Physically.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

When your home moves with the tide, you pay attention differently.

When everything squeaks or leaks or takes three steps to do, you get real clear on what actually matters.

Here’s what I’m still learning: I don’t need to explain this season to anyone. I don’t need to make it sound cooler, simpler, or more noble. I don’t need it to be permanent to let it be meaningful.

I’ve stood alone in the rain with the power tripping every few hours, the head overflowing again, Frank gone, and Whitney watching me unravel - curled up like a judgmental little therapist - while I held a wrench in one hand and a soaked towel in the other, yelling into the air, “How is this my %@#*! life???”

There was the night we discovered surprise! human waste sloshing under the floorboards. (gross and sadly true - yes, it has been fixed, and sterilized - don’t fret)

More than once, I’ve muttered, “Why isn’t the water working again?” followed closely by, “Why is the electricity tripping… again?” and “Why is the A/C blowing hot air?”

Then comes the fun part: “Will the boat burn down if I leave the heater on overnight?” And let’s not forget the classic: “Why is there water under the floor?” as I hand-pump water out from some unknown leak, praying it’s just condensation and not a scene from Jaws 5: Plumbing Revenge.

Unromantic boat life: trying to figure out why there’s water where water definitely shouldn’t be…

And still - somehow - we’re here.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because I’m trying to prove anything.

But because underneath the mess - and sometimes through it - God keeps meeting me here.

Reminding me that maybe the point isn’t getting back to “normal,” but learning how to stay grounded when everything around you is rocking.

Two years in, something has shifted.

We moved to San Diego, and I feel a peace I didn’t have at the beginning.

I don’t feel like I need to explain this life anymore.

For the first time in a long time, I feel settled.

Not in a final, planted forever kind of way - but in a deep, internal sense that I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

I used to wonder when I’d feel “ready” to move back onto land.

Now? I’m not in a hurry.

I wake up to the sound of water, I walk Whitney along the marina, I make my coffee and thank God for a season I almost talked myself out of.

There’s beauty here I couldn’t have seen then. But I see it now.

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." — 2 Corinthians 12:9

What’s the thing in your life that feels messy, inconvenient, or flat-out ridiculous - but might actually be where God is doing His deepest work?

Where have you declared “I’m done,” and maybe you were right… but maybe God wasn’t?

You don’t have to make your life look normal.

You don’t have to justify the season you’re in.

And you definitely don’t need to pretend you’re not frustrated when everything leaks, stinks, or breaks at the worst possible moment.

God shows up in that too.

Even when you’ve booked a hotel.

Even when you're googling how to fix the plumbing…again.

Even when you’re done.

He’s not. And He’s not done with you.

Ready for what’s next? If you’re in your own season of “what now?”—wrestling with burnout, reinvention, or just trying to hear God through the noise—I’d love to walk with you.

👣 You can learn more about my 1:1 coaching or join the next Grit & Grace Circle here Or just hit reply. I read every message - even from marina wifi or hotel rooms when the plumbing breaks.

With Grit + Grace,

Dawn
Coach Dawn Noel