The air near the water feels lighter, which is ironic, because technically it isn’t. There’s more humidity by the coast. More moisture. More weight. And yet, every time I’m near the water, my body acts like gravity has loosened its grip just a little.

When I run along the water, I feel lighter. Like I could sing at the top of my lungs and no one would even blink. Not because I can sing—important distinction—but because everyone else seems to be riding the same quiet wave. No one’s paying close attention. Everyone’s a little soft and unguarded. It feels like a shared permission slip.

The best way I can describe it is that the salt air tickles my brain. Not in a sharp way. In a way that makes each breath feel easier, each sound a little easier on the ears, and even the light feels less harsh. Like something has stepped in and taken the edge off everything at once.

I have a very specific memory of this feeling. After 7.5 weeks in the middle of San Antonio, Texas for basic training, I took a twelve-hour bus ride to Biloxi, Mississippi. I was running on rules, adrenaline, and a turkey and cheese sandwich I grabbed from Buc-ee’s during a very quick rest stop.

The second I stepped off the bus, I could smell the salt. I could feel the air change immediately.

I was being yelled at to grab my bags and move, but even then, in the middle of all that noise, something in my body settled. It was one of the most grounding moments I can remember, which is strange considering how aggressively un-calm the situation actually was.

Here’s the part I love: that feeling isn’t just in my head.

Coastal air contains a higher concentration of negatively charged ions, created by wave action and salt spray. These ions influence serotonin regulation, reduce perceived stress, and improve subjective alertness without acting like a stimulant. Not a jolt. More like stepping into water that’s already the right temperature, where your body just settles in.

So no, the ocean doesn’t fix you. But it does calm the nervous system just a little.

It’s not just the chemistry. Visually, large bodies of water simplify the world. Long sightlines. Fewer sharp edges. Repetitive, predictable sound patterns. Waves don’t surprise you. They arrive again, and again, and again. The brain thrives on that kind of reliability. Predictability lowers cognitive load and quiets the constant background scanning most of us don’t even realize we’re doing.

The result is space.

Not the kind of space that asks you to reflect, process, or have a breakthrough. Just space to exist without being crowded by your own senses, thoughts, or aggravations. Space to breathe. To be yourself without narrating it.

That’s what the water gives me. Not answers. Not clarity. Just a softer baseline. A feeling that I don’t have to brace. It’s about remembering what your body feels like when it isn’t working so hard to hold itself together.