There’s nothing like shoving off the dock at sunrise when the water is calm and still as a mirror. I stretch my arms out like a divining rod and press my legs until the boat glides backward and takes me with it. I do it again, micro-correcting my stroke. Whoosh. A rowing lap on the Schuylkill begins by facing the Philadelphia skyline. I can see the statue of William Penn standing atop City Hall a few blocks from my old office, where I spent countless hours alone staring at words on a computer screen well past midnight. Whoosh. The city disappears behind the river’s bend.

I took up rowing because I needed to get out of my head and into my body but along the way, I realized I was also rowing myself back into the world. I glide beneath a bridge rattling with trains carrying suburban commuters to their offices then begin looking for sunbathing turtles, calm kings perched on rocks along the river’s edge. I check out the ducks. If I’m lucky I glimpse a great blue heron and get to watch this magnificent bird’s slow wingbeat lift its hollow bones into the air.

You can learn a lot about yourself in a boat. Over time, I realized my bad rowing habits reflected the same shortcomings that led to burnout in the first place. I can be anxious and too eager to please, so I often find myself yanking on the oars instead of relying on stronger muscles in my legs and back to do the work. At the end of the stroke, I’m supposed to push my hands away as quickly as possible to set up for what’s called the recovery, meaning the slow slide back up to the stern. It took me months to stop rushing through the recovery, even though you’re supposed to spend more time in recovery than in the more muscular parts of the stroke.

I still catch myself staring at my feet, miserably muscling through the miles instead of maintaining correct posture and lifting my chin enough to gaze at the horizon. When my coach sees me hunched over he laughs and gestures at the trees and blue sky. “Look up! It’s beautiful out here!”

Sometimes I realize I must be doing something wrong because I’m too tired, too soon. I’ve come to recognize exhaustion as an opportunity, an invitation to efficiency.

Like the burnout that led me to row in the first place, feeling exhausted when I have to row two miles back to the dock tells me I need to reconsider my approach, to work smarter, not harder.

Rowing taught me that balance is more important than endurance, and that I can cultivate it.

I work hard now but have a life outside of the office, complete with nights and dinners and vacations. My husband no longer refers to himself as a writer’s widower. I took tap dancing lessons last year, and I play in a band. I even have sunlight hours to spend on the river.