There’s something about skateboarding that mirrors what goes on inside your head.
The frustration. The repetition. The quiet victories no one else sees.
When you’re out there—whether it’s a cracked curb, a parking lot, or some rough DIY spot—it’s just you and the board.
You fall.
You get up.
You try again.
Sometimes you land it clean, sometimes you slam hard, and sometimes you sit there staring at the ground wondering why you even bother.
That’s mental health.
That’s life.
Skating’s taught me that progress isn’t always obvious.
You don’t see the tiny adjustments your body makes to get closer to sticking that trick.
Just like you don’t always notice the small wins in your head when you’re battling with your mental health.
Getting out of bed. Answering a message. Leaving the house when everything inside is telling you not to.
Skateboarding doesn’t ask you to be perfect.
It just asks you to show up.
To roll out and try.
To take the hits and learn from them.
To laugh at the falls when you can, and breathe through the ones that hurt.
There’s freedom in that.
In knowing that you’re allowed to mess up.
That every failed attempt still counts because it means you’re out there moving.
Chain Theory was born from this headspace.
From skate sessions that cleared the static.
From days where skating saved me in ways I didn’t have words for at the time.
So if you’re struggling—whether it’s with your mind, your mood, or just the weight of everything—remember this:
You don’t have to land everything today.
You don’t even have to land anything at all.
Just keep showing up.
Keep rolling.
shout out to the homie Simon Bones for shots of him skating
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