When the Wind Whistled Back

The other day, I sat alone on Cherry Beach in Toronto. It was cold. Grey. Unsalted air hit my face like a memory. Out in the distance, a few people were windsurfing—harnessed in, balanced, flowing with the wind like they belonged there. And I sat on the shore, my feet tucked under me, watching with eyes that quietly began to fill.

I used to be out there. Something about that moment cracked me open. I wasn’t just remembering a sport. I was mourning something deeper—freedom, perhaps. Or the version of me that once believed she could sail through anything. I asked myself, Didem… hadn’t you already broken your chains?

The answer came like a whisper: Yes. But somehow, you’ve worn them again.

Alacati is located on the Çeşme Peninsula in Turkey, along the Aegean Sea.

Back to Alaçatı

It was about seven years ago when I first ran away—not from the world, but toward something I couldn’t yet name. I went to Alaçatı, one of the most peaceful towns in Turkey, searching for answers or maybe hoping the meaning of life would find me instead.

At Alacati Kumrucu Kale, treat yourself to two orange-cottage cheese cookies and a cup of Turkish tea.

And stay at Alacati Zeytin konak otel.

That’s when I found windsurfing.

The place was wild with wind—powerful, unpredictable. But the people on the water?

Peaceful. Free. Joyful.They weren’t performing. They were present. No filters. No gloom. Just wind and water and soul.

I wanted that.

So, when the weather calmed, I tried. Seven days straight, I fell—again and again. My hands blistered. My knees bruised. I was sunburned and salt-soaked, and every muscle ached.

The uphaul, that thick rope tied to the sail, became my first teacher. To lift the sail, I had to pull with everything I had. Over and over. It felt like dragging a tooth from the sea. But worse—because the water softened my skin until it peeled. The salt burned my eyes. And the rope, with its rough knots, cut into my palms every time I reached for it.

And yet—it was the only way up.

Even when I managed to raise the sail, if my board wasn’t aligned or if the wind caught me from behind too soon, I’d fall back instantly. Tiny miscalculations flipped everything.That’s life, too.

You can do everything right—pull the right rope, stand in the right stance—and still fall. Because the wind doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It comes when it comes.

Still, I refused to give up. And that day, on my first try all alone, I made it back to shore, on my own.

My friends asked what happened—my hands were torn, my face burnt, but I was smiling like someone who just returned from the edge of something beautiful. Because I had.

When the Water Wasn’t Kind

Two years later, I returned to the same sea—this time with better gear, a bigger sail, and a heavier heart. My grandmother had just passed away. I was buried in a research project for my master’s that seemed to only produce failure. I had shifted careers, lost support, and was carrying myself through every inch of it—physically, emotionally, financially.

But I thought: I know this sea. I’ve done this before.

Only, this time, the sea didn’t greet me. It tested me.

The waves were violent. The wind too strong. My hands bled. My skin blistered beneath my wetsuit. I tried every technique I knew, but nothing worked.

Eventually, I gave up. I sat on my board in the middle of the sea and cried. Cried for the effort. Cried for the failure. Cried because I couldn’t control it.

Then, a rescue boat appeared.

“Are you okay, Didem?”

“No,” I said.

“Do you want help?”

“Yes.”But the man on the boat didn’t pull me in.

“I won’t take you to shore,” he said.“But I’ll help you lift your sail.Then you’ll sail back on your own. I believe in you. So does the wind.”

Something changed in me. With trembling hands and a trembling heart, I stood. I clipped into my harness. I placed my feet in the straps. And I sailed.

Fast. So fast...

And then it happened.

That sacred moment—when everything aligns just right—the wind rushed under my board and made it whistle. A special sound, like a secret between the sea and me. It wasn’t me whistling—it was the wind. It was nature saying: I see you. I believe in you, too.

I screamed from joy. Not the polite kind—the kind that bursts from your chest like light. I cried all the way back to the shore. Not from pain. From freedom.

Why I’m Writing This Now

Because I’m back on the board. But this time, I’m not in Alaçatı. I’m not in the middle of the sea. I’m in Toronto. Navigating life. Career. Loneliness. Rebuilding.

I have my tools: My experiences. My skills. My sail.

But right now… I feel like I’m drifting.

I’ve tried. I’ve pulled the uphaul. I’ve stood and fallen again.

And again. And again...

But today—this exact moment—I feel far from the shore. No rescue boat in sight. No voice saying “I believe in you.”Just me. On a board. With shaking hands. Watching the city skyline grow distant behind me.

So I’m writing this to remind myself: I’ve sailed before. I’ve aligned before. I’ve heard the wind whistle for me before.

Maybe I just need to let someone help me lift the sail. Maybe I need to stop trying to control everything and let the wind move through me again.

Because freedom isn't about fighting harder. It’s about remembering who you are when you’re in flow.

And deep down, I know this: The wind still believes in me.

So the wind still believes in me?