I was in my late 30s when I fell madly in love with a fellow surfer. The relationship was tumultuous, but because the biological clock was not ticking in our favour, less than a year in we decided to try for a baby. Weeks later I stared in disbelief at the double lines of the pregnancy test. First try – I was one of the lucky ones. What was life going to look like now?

As an avid surfer for five years, I tried to continue in the first trimester. But the motion of the ocean made me feel ill, my breasts hurt as I paddled and the low-lying fear of being eaten by a rogue shark, swamped by a rogue wave, or knocked out by a rogue surfer, ratcheted right up. The thought of paddling out triggered a cascade of possible catastrophes in my mind’s eye; every surfer was a potential physical threat. I decided to beach myself.

On a good day, being a surf widow was wonderful. I would stand on the beach, taking phone videos of my partner’s waves and feeling like the luckiest woman alive.

On a bad day, it involved waiting grumpily in the beach car park for his return from the water.

I wished I could be like the other pregnant women I had seen knee-paddling out, bumps protruding, gliding down the waves, right up until days before the baby was born. For some, moving through the water on a board, surf mat, or while body surfing, was an absolute joy. The idea of their baby floating inside the belly while mum floated among the waves deepened their connection with the ocean. Another pregnant friend had even continued to swim out at Bells Beach – renowned for its big waves – while clutching a heavy camera. I was in awe.

When my son was a couple of months old – and I had finally stopped randomly bursting into tears from exhaustion, fear, loneliness and panic – I decided to try surfing again. Surely the joy of being in the ocean would outweigh the fear of a freak accident?

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As my child slept snuggled against his father’s chest, I pulled on my wetsuit and carefully waded into the water with my longboard, looking back every second step to check all was well on shore. Is my son warm enough? Is he wearing his beanie correctly? Are both socks on his feet?

It had been nearly a year and I felt as if I had forgotten how to surf. After bobbing in the small swell, my eyes locked on a wave rolling towards me. It was time to paddle. I moved to a standing position on the board and my only thought was to watch the crystal wall of water roll beneath me. It felt good to be back in the water, and present in my body.

Now for the next hurdle. When on earth was there going to be time to surf regularly? In between feeds, sleeps and naps? I tried searching for surfing lady friends (or “murfers” as they’re sometimes known) who were willing to tag-team catching waves and child-minding on the beach.

Social media assured me it would be a sure thing – beach umbrellas, breastfeeding in wetsuits, sandy toddlers, boards scattered on the sand. Though I tried, I didn’t find my surfing mamma tribe. I still managed to sneak in an occasional surf. Whenever I could, the fear and anxiety of being hurt and the mother’s guilt of doing something just for me was ever present.

Six years on, the parental guilt doesn’t sting as much. Now as a single parent I scour for windows of time to surf, my frustration emerging when the hour I have carved out coincides with unfavourable conditions.

I love to surf at dawn on those kid-free, shared-care weekends, paddling out to the lineup to be warmly greeted by the older surfers. Some ask “Where have you been?” and I find myself making excuses for my absence, in an attempt to stake my claim as a local.

This year I have started pushing my son into the water and watching him pop up on small waves. As he glides into shore I stand in the shallow white water, pumping my fists, cheering him on. I know it won’t be too long until we will be sharing bigger waves. By then, the windows of time to surf will be wide open.