When we were little, there was this toy we called the Flying Turtle—a low-to-the-ground plastic contraption with handlebars you wiggled side to side to make it move. You didn’t pedal; you swerved. Twisted. Hoped the universe (and your core strength) would eventually carry you forward.
My cousins, my brother, and I would take turns gliding across the driveway, limbs flailing, faces lit up. (In hindsight, I’m convinced it was secretly designed by a Pilates instructor. The obliques? Obliquing.)
The Flying Turtle was never the first pick.
It was what you grabbed when the Razor scooters and shiny bikes were already claimed.
It was awkward. Inefficient.
And yet—delightfully wiggly. Deeply satisfying in that full-body, unhinged, sweaty-kid-in-the-summer kind of way.
Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m back on that Flying Turtle.
Ever since COVID (and let’s be real—probably even before), life has felt like one long, uphill crawl on something that technically works… but only if you give it everything you’ve got.
I see other people zipping by—on sleek bikes, glittery rollerblades, being pulled by partners on longboards—and I’m just… shimmying.
Giggling to keep from crying.
Calling out, “Don’t worry! I’ll catch up!” even when I’m not so sure I will.
They say, “It’s the climb. It’s the journey. Challenges are character-building.”
Sometimes it really just feels like bullshit.
An epic side-eye moment.
On the one hand, it’s funny—like, actually hilarious—wiggling up a hill on a Flying Turtle.
You feel every muscle working, and somehow it all makes a weird kind of sense.
Like maybe this S-shaped squiggle is the path.
Maybe the back-and-forth lets you see more sides of the hill. More trees. More glimmers of light.
You wave to your friends coasting past.
You make jokes with fellow Turtle-wigglers.
You promise each other a hug when you all finally reach the top.
But it’s okay to admit you’re still tired.
It doesn’t make you less grateful.
Just human.
Stay with me…
I had a dream a few weeks ago where my dad gave me advice.
He sat on the edge of my bed—like he used to when I was small—and gave me a hug.
Then he looked at me and said:
"You don’t need to be so worried. This is life. You’re allowed to have fun. You’ve earned the easy days. You’re in the good moments now. Just relax."
Then—dream logic—my brother and I were full-grown adults, riding Flying Turtles up a hill.
We were laughing, but we were tense.
Exhausted. Determined.
At some point, I paused, looked down at the wiggly mess of it all, and realized…
I could just stand up and walk.
So I turned to my brother and said,
"We can just walk."
And we did.
I think a lot of us are still living in a post-crisis body.
A post-sickness, post-loss, post-just keep moving, post-boss-who-made-you-feel-crazy kind of body.
A post-pandemic spirit that doesn’t even realize it’s still clenched.
We’re all fighters now.
And the good news? We already know we can make it through the uncontrollables.
But we’re also allowed to relax.
You’re allowed to pause. To breathe.
To say:
"Yo, I’m gonna have to just disappear for two weeks."
You don’t have to earn the next beautiful thing through exhaustion.
In fact—maybe instead of marching up another hill, you can ski.
Or coast.
Or ride something sparkly and ridiculous.
You can walk.
You can meander.
You can even lie in the grass halfway up the hill and text someone you love.
You can get roller skates.
So yeah—don’t stop wiggling.
But maybe, just maybe, try believing you’ll get to the top no sweat.
Because you will.
You don’t have to do it the hard way every time.
And once you’re up there, you get to look around… and pick your next hill.
Wiggle wiggle wiggle.
The flying turtle!! That brought back so m at memories 💗