Saltwater Cleanse: Is the Ocean the Only Place We’re Allowed to Fall Apart?

Author’s Note: While on vacation in Roatan (in the Bay Islands of Honduras), I was snorkeling and inspired to write a blog series called “Saltwater Musings” – a tropical take on love, loss, healing, and the courage to dive deeper…written in the style of the character Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City and in collaboration with AI. It was a fun project that got me thinking creatively while still supporting women who are going through divorce, loss, and rebirth. This blog, Saltwater Cleanse: Is the Ocean the Only Place We’re Allowed to Fall Apart? is the second in the series. I hope this series inspires other women to plunge into the unknown to find something beautiful. 

They say saltwater heals everything: sweat, tears, or the sea. So naturally, I booked a vacation to an island surrounded by all three.

There’s a strange kind of permission that exists when you’re on an island. The rules of the mainland don’t quite apply. Time slows. Hair goes curly. And suddenly it’s perfectly acceptable to burst into tears over a plate of grilled plantains—or to stare out at the horizon for hours while letting go of something (or someone) you didn’t even realize you were still holding.

That’s how I found myself, somewhere between a coconut cocktail and a sunburned shoulder, experiencing an emotional breakdown disguised as a beach holiday.

Detoxing, Island Style

We always talk about “cleansing” like it’s something you do to your body—juice fasts, dry brushing, infrared saunas. But no one tells you how to detox your heart. How to rid yourself of the lingering emotional toxins—regret, resentment, guilt, what-ifs—that don’t show up on a scale but weigh just as much.

The truth is, I didn’t come to Roatan to heal. I came to escape.

But the thing about running away is, wherever you go, there you are—in your cute matching set and your oversized sunglasses—still carrying that heavy emotional luggage you swore you left at the gate.

And on this particular trip, mine showed up loud and unzipped.

Crying in Saltwater Feels More Poetic

On our second morning, I walked down to the beach before sunrise. The air was soft and thick with salt. The waves whispered instead of roared, and the whole shoreline shimmered like a promise. I slipped into the ocean like a secret, hoping to float away whatever it was that had been pressing down on me for months.

And then—without warning—I started to cry.

Not a delicate tear, not a pretty single-stream-down-the-cheek situation. A full-body, ugly, open-mouthed sob into the sea. It surprised me. I hadn’t cried in weeks. Maybe months. I’d been too busy keeping it together, performing strength, pretending I was fine. But out there in the water, I didn’t have to be fine. No one was watching. The fish didn’t care. The sea didn’t judge. I let the tears come. Salt mixing with salt. Grief blending with tide.

And just like that, I began to let go.

The Mask of Strength

I once prided myself on being the strong one.

I was the fixer, the friend who had it together, the one who could make a spreadsheet out of a crisis. While everyone else fell apart, I made dinner reservations and checked hotel cancellation policies. I was composed. Capable. A human Band-Aid with good shoes.

But what happens when the fixer needs fixing?

There’s a quiet shame in unraveling, especially when you’ve built your identity on holding it together. But here’s the secret no one tells you: strength isn’t about avoiding the breakdown. Strength is allowing yourself to fall apart—in the right place, with the right people, or even just with yourself. Sometimes, you have to get into the ocean and sob like your life depends on it.

Because maybe it does.

Island Magic (Or Just Salt and Sun)

After my saltwater sob session, something shifted. I spent the rest of the day floating, literally and emotionally. I napped. I journaled. I let myself feel instead of fix. And I noticed how the island gave me permission I never granted myself at home.

Permission to rest.
Permission to soften.
Permission to not be okay.

The sea doesn’t care about your resume or your relationship status. It doesn’t care if you cried on the shuttle van or if you haven’t returned emails in a week. It just takes you in, salt and all.

Maybe that’s why so many women come to the ocean when they need to heal. It’s not just about the view or the cocktails or the Instagram photos. It’s about being in a place that lets you be undone. A place where no one is keeping score.

The ocean says: Come as you are. Bring your grief. I can hold it.

Who Are We When We’re Not Performing?

Back home, we perform so much. We perform confidence. We perform wellness. We perform healing, even when we’re quietly unraveling inside.

But on vacation? On an island? In the sea? There’s no audience. So, we get real.

I saw it happen with women I met here. The overworked mom who spent the first day in full makeup and gold hoop earrings—only to go barefaced and barefoot by day three. The woman who said she came to “clear her head” but ended up deleting her ex’s number instead. The couple who arrived fighting and left… less so.

Maybe this is what healing really looks like: less curated, more curious. Less fixing, more feeling.

It’s in the sand stuck to your legs. The sunburn you forgot to care about. The mango juice on your chin. It’s messy, and wild, and sometimes uncomfortable—but it’s honest.

And isn’t that what we’ve been starving for?

The Real Cleanse

Somewhere between the sea and the silence, I realized that I had been holding onto things that no longer served me—like a bad habit or an expired bottle of face serum. Stories I told myself about who I was. Grudges disguised as boundaries. Fear disguised as “standards.”

I started to release them, one by one.

Not in a grand ceremony. No crystals were involved (though I did see a woman doing breathwork with a conch shell). It was quieter than that. Smaller.

I forgave myself for the choices I made when I didn’t know better.
I let go of the timeline I thought I was supposed to be on.
I gave myself permission to begin again.

And in doing so, I created space.

For possibility.
For peace.
For whatever comes next.

So… Is Saltwater Really the Cure?

After a week of sun, sea, and slow unraveling, I’ve come to believe that saltwater might not heal everything—but it’s a damn good start.

Because when we give ourselves the space to fall apart, we also give ourselves the chance to rebuild. Not the same old structure we clung to before, but something softer. Something freer. Something truer.

And maybe that’s what healing really is. Not a return to who you were, but the courageous act of becoming who you were meant to be.

So if you find yourself spiraling, or stuck, or feeling like the world expects too much from you—find a body of water. Take a deep breath. Get in. Let go.

And if you cry while floating, just remember: saltwater heals everything.

Even you.

Like this blog? Continue reading the third blog in the series, The Beach Blanket Breakdown.