A winter gray cast over everything. No gentle sunlight warmed the wooden dock I’d hoped to lay on, no sparkling blue water shimmered and called to my longing gaze and no other swimmers floated lazily on pool noodles in the shallows. The dread of mid-winter wove itself between the shores of the Huron River and into my mind, replacing a romanticized vision of going swimming in nicer weather. Looking into the murky water, I felt the all-too-familiar pre-cold plunge apprehension and quickly silenced the thought, reminding myself that it would all be worth it afterwards.
The best, most tried-and-true way to do a cold plunge is by running down a rickety dock and jumping euphorically off the end into at least four feet of water, so as to shock yourself with the chill. Yet, on this dreary day, having arrived alone, I chose to relinquish this aspect of authenticity in the interest of safety. Hesitantly, I stepped in, wincing at the cold. It was almost more difficult to convince myself to walk in slowly; jumping didn’t give you time for second thoughts, and the cold imposed itself all at once rather than in slow, painful stages. The river bottom was rocky and the water clouded quickly, my steps stirring up silt as I advanced into the deeper parts where the scarce rays of sun couldn’t penetrate. When the water reached my chest, I crouched down until my body was submerged up to the base of my neck. I took a couple of deep breaths and then, before I could lose the nerve, slipped completely under. Waiting a few seconds until the water passed through my hair and grazed my scalp, I emerged into the February air.
The cold is frightening and brings sharp waves of anxiety. The deep breaths one takes before submersion are a futile match for the unrelenting freeze of the water. A rush of adrenaline drowns out the living world around you. All your thoughts and feelings are channeled into the sharp tug pulling you forward from the middle of your chest. Even as your eyes open and your skin starts to warm, fear still centers itself in your lungs, an all-consuming pressure that jagged breaths work to subside. You stand up in the water, hands on your chest to remind your lungs how to work. Your eyes are wide with panic. You worry that you’ve pushed yourself too far, that you’ve stepped too closely to the edge and this time you won’t be able to regain your deep and measured breaths. Yet, somehow, you find your way to stable footing. Your lungs thaw and your breathing becomes deeper, quieter and more controlled. A physical wave of relief and reward washes over you, knowing the worst is over and you have survived.
After about a minute of gasping, I caught my breath and calmed down. I stood alone in the river for a bit — the cold was more enjoyable once I could breathe through it. Finally ready to leave, I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel. The sun was starting to peek out as morning gave way to afternoon. I basked in this illusion of warmth and lay on a wooden bench. My heart, having been exposed to the cold water, sang with the delight of persisting through a difficult endeavor.
***
Cold or polar plunges, ice swimming and ice baths all involve intentionally spending time in cold water and are not a new phenomenon. Such practices can be traced back centuries to various origins, including the Ancient Grecians and Romans, communities indigenous to the Caribbean Islands and greater Latin America and Nordic countries. But in the past several years, cold plunges have become an increasingly popular trend among Americans, with the phrase itself spiking in Google searches since January 2022. Approaches vary from person to person. Some people keep large tubs of icy water in their backyard to hop into during colder months, whereas others are booking flights to countries across the world that advertise cold water experiences. Celebrities like Hailey Bieber and Lizzo have shared videos of their cold plunges while praising the anxiety-reducing and anti-inflammatory benefits.
Such celebrity ravings have contributed to how cold plunges have become closely intertwined with the wellness industry. Whenever I tell someone about a cold plunge I’ve done, the most common response I get is an approving nod and an exclamation along the lines of, “Wow, that’s supposed to be so good for you!” Beyond scientific skepticism pointing out that the alleged health benefits are not supported by sufficient evidence, I take issue with the notion that cold plunges are supposed to “be something.” An approach that values cold plunges primarily for their health benefits seems to reflect and contribute to an expectation focused primarily on productivity and achievement. Yet, to me, a cold plunge is none of those things. To ascribe meaning or intent in advance of the experience takes away from truly being in the moment.
Even before I learned to love cold plunges, I loved to swim. This passion for swimming is purely recreational. I just love to be in water. Growing up in Michigan with a family that valued traveling, bodies of water have been present at nearly every stage of my life. From childhood summers spent jumping off docks into no-wake lakes and ducking under the waves of Lake Michigan, to waking up at ungodly hours in search of the exhilarating morning plunge into Lake Winnipesaukee, in water I am reminded of what it means to play, or to float away into blissful nothingness.
My love of water, simultaneously casual and wholeheartedly believed in, carries a certain gravity. Swimming, no matter the temperature of the water, is the first of my hobbies in which I haven’t immediately tried to capitalize on my talents, working religiously to achieve some abstract level of improvement. It is an unstructured pastime, mine alone to know and to hold, to keep to myself or to invite others into.
So much of the American experience is dedicated to working towards something — chasing material success, self-improvement or educational enlightenment. As we work towards these goals, there is very little time left over in our day to give wholly over to the self. Every hobby has to be for something else. Anything you do that takes up time needs to accomplish something.
There is a constant pressure to yield to the endless pursuit of productivity. Perhaps the ends can justify the means if this drive to produce eventually results in contentment, but what does this mean for the decades we spend trying to get there? Are we all sacrificing the first halves of our lives in search of some arbitrary, unpromised end? When everything we ever do has to have a point, are we really living for ourselves? Are we really living at all?
This is why I’ve come to lean so heavily into my love for cold plunges, and for swimming as I choose to define it. It’s pure fun and enjoyment, and, maybe because of this, it’s a small act of rebellion against a culture that values productivity above all else.
I truly came to understand what swimming meant to me while in New Hampshire as a participant in the New England Literature Program. NELP is a magical experience for countless reasons, including the loving community and endless space for creative experimentation, but especially its location on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee, where, if you can brave the cold, you may swim freely.
In the first few weeks, every Winnipesaukee swim was a cold plunge. I liked that it was difficult, in an almost masochistic way. Even as I habitually participated in cold plunges, and found myself learning to control my breathing more quickly, it never really became easy. There was always a moment of hesitation before I jumped — a split second where I wondered if I really wanted to dive into the cold. But once I was in the water and my breathing had settled down, after I flipped my hair back and wiped the water from my eyes, I would shout with pure, unadulterated happiness. That’s the best part of it all — that gleeful “One more time?” moment after the chill subsides.
At some point during my time at NELP, two other friends and I went for a dip in between classes. We ran down the dock together, hand in hand, and screamed with glee as we landed in the water with a splash. It was an exaggerated reaction to the temperature of the water, which had warmed up by early June which made us laugh. In a moment of overwhelming goofiness and love for each other, we counted to three and dropped our swimsuit tops, exposing our nakedness under the water. Later, removed from the illusion of amber-suspended timelessness that NELP exists within, I would think about this moment a lot, wondering why we did what we did. There was nothing strange or sexual about it. We did it only because we could and because we wanted to, knowing that this moment would be cherished between the three of us forever. It was simple, it was random and it was freeing.
This experience, just like swimming in the Huron nearly a year later, was liberating. Cold plunges are a reminder of the autonomy I have to take risks and to seek out “purposeless” experiences. It’s a tool that allows me to transcend the drudgery of everyday life and the pressure to continually seek purpose in everything I do. Cold plunges tell you with a rushing urgency that you should yield not to the pursuit of productivity, but rather to yourself. We should encourage yielding to internal cravings and unspoken desires that might push us towards greater fulfillment, like that moment when time stands still in freezing cold water.
The current of the Huron River prompted in me a gentle excitement — a reminder to be grateful for this experience where I can be in control of my own life. In water, I find a feeling of introspection that is otherwise lost. It grants me a perspective that is limited to each passing breath, unbridled by the thought of what comes next. I seek these moments of connection to this part of myself that the water holds safely while I am away. I cannot carry it with me always, but I know it is protected in the rivers and lakes I frequent, and will be revealed to me whenever I return to go swimming again, in any season.
Statement Columnist Katie Lynch can be reached at katiely@umich.edu.
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