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How Fly-Fishing Improved My Mental Health

Studies show that the activity may relieve depression, stress and PTSD symptoms. It’s worked for me

Robert Annis,

AARP

Published July 07, 2026

An illustration with a split-view of a river scene showing a man in chest waders casting a fly fishing line above the water while surrounded by flying dragonflies and birds, with a cross-section below the water revealing a large, colorful trout and other fish swimming.

Mindfulness and a greater appreciation of nature are just some of the benefits of fly-fishing.

Lars Leetaru

I got hooked on fly-fishing — pardon the pun — for multiple reasons. After decades of spending nearly every spare moment on a bicycle saddle, I needed a new challenge. I grew up fishing with my dad on weekends, and I wanted to return to the sport, albeit with a bit of a twist.

But the biggest reason was the anxiety and depression I’d fallen into at the time. I felt increasingly disconnected from family and friends, and that self-imposed isolation amplified my despair. I tried self-medicating with bourbon and Parks and Recreation reruns for a while, but Amy Poehler’s comedic brilliance and Kentucky rye could only help so much.

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That’s where fly-fishing came in. Multiple studies over the past decade have affirmed the therapeutic power of fly-fishing, including one released last year in New Zealand that investigated its potential benefits for “the mental, physical, spiritual, and relational well-being of participants.” Another study, focused on veterans suffering from combat-related disabilities, found fly-fishing led to “significant decreases … for symptoms of PTSD, depression, perceived stress, and functional impairment.”

A selfie of Robert Annis holding a large caught rainbow trout in his hands while standing in front of a flowing river lined with green trees.

Author Robert Annis caught this “gorgeous” rainbow trout in April in Hendersonville, North Carolina.

Courtesy Robert Annis

How? Fly-fishing requires mindful participation throughout the act. While wading the Middle Prong of the Little River in Great Smoky Mountains National Park years ago, my guide, Charity Rutter of R&R Fly Fishing, told me to stop for a moment and take a look around. I did, noting the flowing river as well as the surrounding trees and rocks, but she admonished me to look even closer. On the rocks just off the banks, dragonflies were emerging from their shells of their former larval stage, and mayflies landed on the water. Rutter taught me to focus just as much on smaller objects — the morning bug hatch, the way the current curved around the river rocks — and, in turn, gave me a greater appreciation of nature as a whole.

Once I tie on the fly most closely matching the fish’s preferred breakfast, I need to cast that fly perfectly. A fly cast takes focus and practice; I whip the line backward off the water, waiting for the familiar tug as the line unfurls and loads behind me. Then a flick of the arm hurls the line forward, allowing the fly to delicately plop onto the water. That repetitive motion can become almost a meditative, zen-like state.

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As the fly drifts with the current, I must make very subtle changes, called mends, on the water, making sure there are no unnatural movements that might spook a fish. At the end of the drift, if I don’t have a trout or steelhead hooked, I continue to work the water, casting farther out or looking for a different pool, repeating the process all over again. I’m completely engaged in every moment on the water. There’s no time to dwell on work stress, political malfeasance or family drama. There’s only me, the water, and oh yeah, the fish.

Hooking a fish causes intense euphoria and excitement; it doesn’t matter if I’ve caught one, 10 or 100 on the day. If it’s a small fish, I can often just bring in the line immediately, but larger, stronger fish may require letting out some line as it attempts to flee. The goal is to let it tire itself out before finally reeling in the line and netting it.

In essence, it’s a lot like a chess match, one that all too often is won by the fish. A million things can happen for the fish to escape. A pike can bite off the line. A salmon or steelhead will leap into the air, creating enough slack to loosen the hook. Trout or small tarpon will head toward a fallen tree in the water, where the line can get tangled in the branches and break.

At the end of a day of fishing, I almost always feel more mentally refreshed, even if I don’t catch anything. (Though it’s even better if I do.)

I’m not the only person who has found solace in waders. Several organizations such as Project Healing Waters and Casting for Recovery teach veterans and breast-cancer survivors, respectively, the basics of fly-fishing and take them to trout streams near and far. Tamar Martin, a New York City–based psychologist, coauthored a paper about the mental health benefits of fly-fishing for veterans and military personnel with disabilities. When learning to fly-fish herself in 2003, she immediately realized its therapeutic benefits.

“There’s a healing aspect to being in these natural environments, even just standing in the water as it flows around you,” Martin says. Beyond that, “fly-fishing can take time and be hard to learn, but that challenge appeals to many veterans. Casting a fly rod can be an art that’s both beautiful to watch and an amazing feeling when you’re able to do it yourself.”

Martin, who specializes in older-adult patients, says her work can be emotionally and physically challenging. The mental break she gets from fly-fishing allows her to reset, recharge and continue her work.

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