Photo: Elizabeth Carter | Digital Art: Stephanie Thwaites
Story By: Elizabeth Carter
TW: Suicide Attempt, Depression
I’m born and raised in Michigan, so I know it’s wrong to play favorites with our Great Lakes, but I’ll just say what we’re all thinking – Lake Michigan is the best one.
Like most of us born and raised in Michigan, my relationship with the Lake began long before I can remember. We had an honored family tradition of going camping 3 times every summer, every year. It was always tent camping – “Why not just bring your entire house with you?!” my mom would say at every passing motor home – and it was always on Lake Michigan. Another tradition was a twice-yearly visit to my grandparent’s second home in the remote (to me) Yooper town of Garden, a beautiful home with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan. And, yes, waking up to that view is as magnificent as it sounds.
As a kid, I saw the lake as a playmate. We’d frolic together, wild and unburdened. It didn’t matter how cold the water was, my sister and I launched ourselves into it without abandon.
We’d hoped for a yellow flag so we could crash into the waves and flow back and forth with them, only to be removed by our parents because our lips were blue. Lake days lasted hours and hours. We had food and drinks that never seemed to run out, we’d fly a kite, we’d climb dunes, build elaborate sand-drip castles, and rather than going home after we flopped down on our towels from exhaustion, we took naps and woke up to charge back into the lake to cool off.
As the child of an animal-loving vegetarian bicycle commuter, the environment and appreciation of nature were always a big deal in my family. My mother showed us the importance of empathy and kindness to animals and the planet through her behavior.
On one of our camping trips, some teenage boys had managed to catch a seagull, only to do unsavory things I’m sure. That is until she intervened and the bird flew away unharmed, while the boys skulked back to their families. Littering is like kicking a puppy to her, and she always picks up trash. She stops traffic to pick up turtles crossing the roads. Even to this day, she feeds stray cats (and the occasional opossum) along the bike path she takes to work.
All this to say, while we were not raised religiously, we were taught to love and revere nature, to be grateful for the life-giving gifts it gives us, and to appreciate its centuries-long cycles of miracles. Mother Earth evolved and changed for millions of years before conditions were perfect for life to begin. Swirling clouds of gas and dust that superheated and compacted to form our blue marble, sustained by being the perfect distance away from the sun. Everything created on this planet was created with the same materials. Every living thing on our planet is made of the same stuff. Every living thing in the universe is made of stardust.
We are connected to our universe on the most fundamental level. If that’s anything other than a religious experience, I guess I don’t know the meaning of the term.
As I’ve grown older, my perspective has shifted. The world became more complicated. I lost myself to mental illness for years and slipped even further away after some traumatic experiences. I spent a lot of time feeling worthless, thinking the world would be better off without me, wondering what was missing inside me that made me not want to be here. Months and months of endless gray, the only emotion it seemed like I could feel was despair. I was young and alone and didn’t know how to pull myself out of this spiral, nor did I want to. Unless I was at the lake.
Photo: Elizabeth Carter | Grand Haven, Michigan
Photo: Elizabeth Carter
Photo: Elizabeth Carter
That feeling I got when I rounded the corner or came over the hill and saw it expand out in front of me – endless, brilliant, blue. All the pain I was feeling eased ever so slightly – a desperately needed relief. It was there when I needed solitude, sitting on the shore with my feet buried in the sand, letting my thoughts untangle themselves as the waves washed everything clean. The way the sunlight skipped across the waves, the rhythmic lull of water meeting shore—it all seemed to echo: breathe, just breathe.
I would walk into the water and just take a moment to feel it envelop me. Every step a welcoming embrace, cleansing and refreshing liquid filling in all the cracks in my heart and soul.
I told the lake to fix me, to make me feel like I did when I was a kid. I would go all the way under and take a moment to let those healing waters hold me close, wash away all the pain I was suffocating from. A baptism, to start anew.
And I would think about how we are all made of the stars. The water, the sand, the rocks, the animals, the plants – everything around me was also inside me. Connection to each other, to nature, to something bigger than ourselves. I found comfort and safety in that, and once again marveled at how beautiful the universe is. The water made me feel better because it was a part of me. It brought me back to myself. It allowed me to keep going.
Now, if you struggle with mental illness or have in the past, you know that it’s not that easy. There were a few attempts to take my own life, a few hospital stays, and years of therapy, but I finally found ways to survive. Then live. Then thrive. I fell in love with someone who loves the Lake as much as I do. We healed together there. And now, we bring our child there. And like my parents, we have to pull him from the water, purple-lipped and begging to stay in.
Life, with all its sharp edges and complexities, has changed me. I’ve approached Lake Michigan in countless states of being, but it hasn’t changed. No matter how long it’s been, the lake is there. Waiting. Listening. Healing. It doesn’t matter if it’s a meticulously planned beach day with coolers and umbrellas or an impromptu race through lanes of highway construction to get to the water to watch the sunset—the feeling is the same. A deep, cellular sense of relief. Of being understood without words.
This lake is more than a body of water. It’s a repository of memories, a geographical keeper of family history.
It has heard stories whispered into its waves, secrets carried on summer breezes, and watched children grow from sandcastle builders to parents themselves.
Always ready to receive whatever you bring—your exhaustion, your joy, your fears, your love. It offers the same magnificent sunset to the family who’s camped here for generations and the traveler passing through. It holds space for thousands yet feels intensely personal to each visitor.
I don’t get to go to the lake multiple times a year anymore, and I cringe at the chilly water, even if it’s the peak of summer. But, when the world becomes too loud, too complex, I know where to go–to those shores.
But, I do make sure that at least one time every year, I get out to Lake Michigan. To sit. To breathe. To remember that I am small, and the world is wonderfully, immensely large. I take in everything I can, that same feeling in my chest familiar and comforting. Home.
I walk myself into those beautiful healing waters, fully submerge, and say hello to my old friend.
No matter how many years pass, Lake Michigan will always be my first therapist—the one place that recharges my body, heart, and soul.
Photo: Elizabeth Carter
About the Author
Elizabeth is a Michigan State University (go Green!) graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree in Professional and Public Writing who has always found solace and inspiration in the natural landscapes of Michigan. Whether hiking the dunes along Lake Michigan, camping under star-filled skies, or exploring the trails of her home state, she believes that nature is both a storyteller and a source of renewal.
After a few different careers, Elizabeth has found her calling as a Senior Account Manager for RED66, which has allowed her to unlock her creativity, push herself, and bring her passion for writing and love of multitasking, organization, and helping others to the team. When Elizabeth is out of the office, she can be found biking scenic trails with her son, baking desserts inspired by seasonal local ingredients, and planning her next travel adventure.
