This summer, I took on a new sport: rowing. I took a ‘Learn to Row’ class from the Chicago Rowing Foundation and have stayed on with the recreational-level group, going out on the Chicago River (or doing inside workouts in the ‘tanks’) 2-3 days a week. It’s been a long time since I was brand new at anything, which is a vulnerable place to be at any age, but at 54 (all too near 55 but let’s not round up, shall we?) it’s particularly interesting.

My road to rowing (should I say river?) is a long time coming. My freshman year at Northwestern, I heard there was an open call for women to come find out about the rowing program, and I was intrigued. I was not an incredible high school athlete, although I did play varsity basketball for two years, and I loved sports in general. I mentioned this opportunity to my boyfriend at the time, and he somehow talked me out of doing it. I don’t remember his logic, but I’m sure my teenage brain didn’t need much of a push from my first love to be convinced. Truly, I’m sure it was more about him than me, but I’ll save that for my therapist. So I didn’t go.

Through the years I’ve thought about this sliding doors moment and wondered, what if I had biked over that morning just to find out? Could I have been a collegiate athlete? Last year I heard that my son’s high school had a very competitive rowing program, and I urged him to learn more. I must have been truly annoying in that way that mothers of teenagers so easily are, because in exasperation he moaned, “If you like rowing so much, why don’t you do it?”

Why don’t I? I wondered. And that day in early spring I registered for the Learn to Row class coming up in just a few weeks. The rest is, well, history.

I’ve been out on the actual Chicago River for these sessions just a handful of times, but each time it’s exhilarating. The coaches and my teammates have been so patient and kind. I’m so new; I have so much to learn. I make different mistakes and find some small measures of success each time, but I enjoy all of it.

One aspect of the process that I find most challenging is my grip. The first time we were out on the river for real, I held the oars so tightly I had giant blisters on my thumbs. I covered them with band-aids and tape, which I tore off almost immediately the next week when I still bore down so hard with each stroke.

I turned to the Internet for advice on gloves, which some of my teammates wore, and found in Reddit rowing forums that gloves were not recommended by experienced rowers. Instead, the forums chorused, grip more lightly, using one hand to turn the oar into position and back, and both hands to pull through the stroke. That ‘light touch’ seemed to be the key, and the next week, I focused on this small tweak. My hands felt much better.

During that session, I had a flashback to decades before when I went to golf school at Pine Needles Golf Club in South Carolina. My favorite putting coach, Louis “Sweet Lou” Elder, would always tease me about my grip. “You’re tight as tree bark!” he laughed as he playfully tugged on my putter. “Nobody’s going to take it from you! You can’t swing when you grip so hard. Hold it like it’s a baby bird. Gentle.”

Those words echoed in my mind as I sat in the tank listening to my rowing coach; When I held on too tight, I could hardly move. When I loosened up, my entire form changed for the better.

Days later, driving my vehicle, I realized I was clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. Tight as tree bark, I mused and took a moment at a stoplight to drop my shoulders and flex my fingers. I regripped, softly, as the light changed. My whole body relaxed. I loosened my grip and felt the release of letting go.

On a recent Friday morning, I saw a young mother with two small boys in a coffee shop. The boys looked about 2 and 4, and the mom, tired. The towheaded duo munched on donuts, strewing crumbs down their already messy shirts and the floor, drippy juice boxes clutched in dirty hands. I remarked that my boys – no longer little – and I used to do ‘Donut Fridays’ almost every week. She laughed and admitted it was a reward for her as much as for them.

They finished their treats and maneuvered their wagon out the door. One child jumped in to ride, while the other walked beside his mother on the sidewalk, one tiny hand clutching his mother’s, ever so tightly, as if he’d never let go.

This summer, my kids are teening and tweening, and I’m learning to ease my hold on them, too. They are city boys, biking to the park for soccer or whiffleball, or shopping with friends at Ross or Target, off to the gym and Chipotle. They have lives beyond carefully curated camps and adventures I used to plan. It’s hard to resist the urge to micro-manage their days, and to be honest, sometimes they do things I’d prefer they didn’t do. But they make their own mistakes and figure it out. I stay hands off as much as I am able, or at least, I keep my parental grasp relaxed.

But I do love it when my baby birds come back home to nest, returning with stories of friends and fun and food. Sometimes when we are walking, they still hold my hand. I revel in the joy of being close to them for as long as they will allow it. Holding on, not too tightly, just a little while longer.