When Life Throws Curveballs, we need to stay grounded.
While it’s true human beings achieve more when we work together, at the centre of all of our stories are ourselves. It’s important we take the time to understand ourselves well, to recognise our abilities, our strengths and of course to acknowledge where we are still growing. (No one can be good at everything, right?)
We need to achieve this reflection through a lens of compassion and kindness towards ourselves, and focus on our ‘good’ attributes as well as what our inner critic may see as ‘bad’. (I’ll explore this more in future posts, as it’s something that I have been working through for quite a while. But I won’t divert today’s post though, which is about the biggest curveball that life has ever thrown at me, and how I had no choice but to dig deep to make it through.)
In September 2018, I found myself in the middle of a nightmare I never could have imagined—attacked by a shark while on holiday in the beautiful Whitsunday Islands. The experience was as shocking and painful as you might expect, but it also revealed something I hadn’t fully understood about myself – an inner strength I had casually brushed aside and drastically underestimated.
Before the shark attack, I had spent 25 years working in the community services sector. I surprised myself and found my purpose early in my career. I found I loved working as a community support worker to help those in need, provide care, and make a difference in people’s lives.
I say I surprised myself because as a teenager, my path wasn’t always clear—I was a bit of a tearaway teen and was disengaged from school. Stuff of embarrassing family legend, I famously wagged school 17 times in 1987 to watch Top Gun at the movies. I look back now with embarrassment that I was so obsessed, but with even more embarrassment for disrespecting the opportunity for education. However, I’m proud I picked up learning and study opportunities later as I navigated my career.
I left school at 15, and I am pretty sure my school was pleased to see the back of me. At the completion of an administration traineeship I stumbled into community care at my mother’s recommendation (aka her insistence). Initially resistant, I quickly found myself drawn to the work. My journey in the sector led me to a fulfilling career where I grew from a community support worker to, eventually, an executive. I became someone others saw as resilient and strong, but until that fateful day in the water, I didn’t fully believe it or appreciate it myself.
The attack happened in a matter of seconds. A simple dive into the refreshing water saw a perfect day turn into a nightmare. I had stood on the boat with my toes curled over the stern admiring beautiful Cid Harbour, then took a dive into the water for a quick swim and as I resurfaced a shark hit me with a force so massive I struggle to describe it. I knew immediately what had happened – with a force like that it could only have been a shark.
I pushed the shark off my inner thigh. I make it sound easier than it was – it was actually a struggle. The shark was quite persistent and wanted to take more of me than it already had. After persuading the shark to leave I swam back to the boat – a few swim strokes and I was there.
I was confused why my right leg wouldn’t work as I tried to navigate the swim ladder, and I needed help to get out of the water. My husband Craig and friend Ben were there instantly and helped me out of the water. The pain was beyond comprehension – I am sure my brain did not even let me feel it. The pain was beyond what I was capable of processing. But what I could process was the size and gravity of my injury. When I saw the bite I knew I was in big trouble – all the inside of my thigh was gone, as was most of the front of it and all of the back. I could see the bone – the bite was right down to the bone, and blood was spurting from my femoral artery. It’s a memory that is forever etched in my brain.
I knew I had to stay calm, and panic was my enemy. I had to do everything I could to stop my heart rate from rising – my first aid training told me a raised heart rate would pump the blood out of me sooner. I had to hand control of my first aid to those with me, and take control of the only things I was able to influence – my thoughts, and my breathing.
My husband Craig and best friend Lynne, both sailors and good problem solvers, were quick to act with first aid. Craig stuffed towels into the gaping wound in my leg, trying to stem the bleeding from my severed femoral artery, while Lynne started bandaging firmly over the top of the towels. Craig had done basic first aid over the years, but Lynne had been a ‘next level’ first aider her whole life and had even been a volunteer paramedic for a period in her early 20s. Even though these experiences for her were quite a while ago (I am sure that I will get in trouble for suggesting there are many years between her 20s and now!) her knowledge kicked in. I remember how intent she was on the task at hand.
My friend Michelle jumped onto the radio and sent out a Mayday emergency distress signal together with our location, what had happened, and what help we needed. I had been the one to teach Michelle to use the marine radio, over a few years of holidaying together. It’s somewhat ironic it was these skills she was using to help save my life! Her husband Ben, deciding the situation needed a triple zero call also just to ensure that all necessary services knew about our situation as soon as possible, climbed onto the top of the cabin of the boat and called for help. Mobile phone coverage is famously patchy in these areas.
Michelle and Ben managed the huge task of these communications in the environment of also assisting Craig and Lynne with what they needed as they applied first aid.
Nearby boats heard the Mayday over the radio and sent bandages and other offers of assistance. An emergency doctor appeared, as if by miracle, about 45 minutes later.
He introduced himself to me, searched around in my neck for a pulse. I now know that my blood loss was so great, and my blood pressure so low that he could not feel it. He spoke to me about getting me to the helicopter, and asked if I had any questions.
I asked him if I was going to die.
He told me that I was seriously injured, and extremely unwell and it was possible I may die – but there was a chance I might survive. I found these words strangely comforting – not only because it validated my feelings that I might die, but mostly because there was a chance I might survive.
I chose that – I chose that chance to hang onto.
I knew the choice as to what to hang onto from this conversation was mine. To hang onto the positive messaging was a conscious choice.
The image of the doctor’s face as we had that conversation lives with me every day. In it, I find comfort but I also admire and appreciate the honesty of that exchange.
What struck me in those moments wasn’t the chaos – those with me did a great job of remaining calm and doing what they needed to do, but rather it was the strength I had found within myself to remain calm, focused, and determined to survive. I didn’t know I had it in me. People had told me all my life I was strong, but I never believed them—until I had no choice but to prove it to myself.
Rescue came in the form of a helicopter, though this was certainly not without challenges. The helicopter had just happened to be in the area on another mission. They weren’t equipped for a rescue like the one I needed. The fuel was low, the light fading, and the locations too dangerous to land nearby. The helicopter crew showed extraordinary bravery, with a rescue crewman swimming to our tender to winch me to safety, and the pilot pushing every limit on his fuel window, needing to start to fly off before I had made it to the top of the wire and was fully into the helicopter.
The helicopter crew demonstrated a professionalism and calm response under pressure to play a critical role in my survival. Despite the obstacles they faced they executed the rescue with precision and care. Their ability to remain composed in such a high-stakes situation is something I will always be thankful for. In a future post, I’ll go into more detail about this extraordinary rescue and the team’s efforts that day, as it deserves its own spotlight.
Thanks to the drugs and blood loss I don’t have any memory of arrival at Mackay Base Hospital. I am told when I reached hospital, despite the blood the rescue paramedic managed to get into me in the helicopter, my blood pressure was unrecordable, and I was in a rapidly deteriorating condition. Apparently my chance of survival was around 20%.
The Mackay Base Hospital Emergency Department doctor worked some magic that day, however, the absolute magic I remember the most is that she stayed with me until I was put to sleep for that first surgery to save my life. She held my hand, refused to leave me, and kept telling me that I was being strong. Again, this is an image that will live with me forever and in which I continue to find comfort.
I woke up in ICU in Brisbane over a week later. I was stunned to be alive, and even more stunned to have my leg.
The physical recovery was hard. The surgeons took muscle and skin from my abdomen to reconstruct my leg. The surgery took 18 hours, and left me in ICU for a week. It was an enormous ordeal to recover from and I found myself needing to dig deep. Again.
I had to learn to walk again and physiotherapy continues even now, over 6 years later.
The psychological recovery was no easier. For a time, I couldn’t imagine ever swimming or sailing again. I issued a strict family rule—no one was to swim in the ocean ever again. Yet, over time, I realised I didn’t want the shark to take more from me than it already had. Yes, it had taken a lot from me, but it also had given me so much.
It taught me to see myself as strong, to trust in my own resilience. I made the decision to reclaim the ocean, to swim, to sail, and enjoy life. And while I would like to say I also made the decision to live without fear I think some fear is healthy, but it can’t be the loudest voice in our heads.
So, while I speak a lot in my talks and writings about the help and expertise of other people– it would all have been for nothing if I had not been able to control my reaction to the situation that I found myself in. I was central to that.
If I had panicked on the deck of the boat and needed the help of others to stay calm, they would not have been able to get the first aid happening as soon as they did. Staying as calm as I could bought me time, rather than rapidly bleeding out.
These hours on the deck, and my time in ICU were some of the toughest I have ever lived through. I lived through these times because my eyes were opened to my true strength that day.
My journey and my experiences have made me realise something profound: there is immense power in remaining calm. Chaos may swirl around us, but we have control over how we respond. I couldn’t control the shark, the blood loss, or the uncertainty of survival, but I could control my breath, my thoughts, and my resolve.
There’s strength in calm, in holding onto what we can manage when everything else is out of our hands. It’s a lesson not just for times of crisis, but for every day. We often overlook our own role in these moments—quick to give credit to external factors, too hesitant to recognise our own contributions. But acknowledging our strength and resilience is vital.
It’s okay to give ourselves credit when we rise to the occasion, even when part of us doubts we can. The calm determination I found within myself made a world of difference in those critical hours, and I believe it’s something we can all tap into.
These days I speak at events, sharing my story in the hope others can learn from it. I often say, “don’t wait until you have a shark hanging off your thigh to realise what you are truly capable of.” We all have strength inside us, often untapped, and we owe it to ourselves to recognise it before we’re tested in the hardest of ways.
My journey, both personal and professional, has been about discovering resilience in unexpected places. Life after a traumatic event like mine is different, but not worse. As my husband Craig optimistically said not long after my accident, “Life will never be the same, but who knows—it might be better.”
It is.