This morning, I went for a cold dip at Westwood Lake. The fog had rolled in, and I reminisced in the memory of wading through what seemed like clouds last December. When I approached the shoreline, I realized the lake was completely frozen over.

Fog floated over the thin ice. It would have easily shattered, but I couldn’t bring myself to break it. I’d never seen a lake fully freeze over before. Instead of going in, I sat on a log with my thermos of tea and took in the stillness.

~

It’s been a year since my first cold water dip. A year and a week ago I would’ve called you crazy for telling me I’d be writing this piece now. After all, cold dipping is such a stupid activity (allegedly).

Frankly, not much has changed since I started dipping, but it has given me the power to do things that I used to find difficult. There is strength in being able to walk calmly into discomfort and to sit with it until it no longer affects you. Once you pass through the pins and needles, the shock, it all slips away and the world—for once—is still.

~

I have struggled with anxiety for much of my life. On the bad days, my thoughts spiral, endlessly dragging on uncomfortable moments and intrusive ideas. They press on the increasing weight of expectation until I reach my limit.

Those bad days are interspersed with alright days, good days, and days where I just can’t shake the feeling of dread in my stomach.

That was before my girlfriend and I broke up. It was amicable, yet messy and incredibly painful. January was supposed to be a month of new beginnings, but each day reminded me of how much I had lost.

My dear friend Lydia suggested cold water therapy as a way to practice washing off the stress and anxiety. I thought cold dipping was crazy, but I trusted her advice. 

The first dip we did was at Maffeo Sutton Park at the end of January 2024. The sun had descended, the sky and ocean were grey, and the park was deserted.

I felt the cold once I stripped to my swimsuit.

I went a few weeks later with my aunt during a family trip to Port Renfrew. She started dipping around the same time I did, and we had chatted over the phone about going out together. Once we were standing on the beach, though, the waves were crashing against the shore and I felt my courage leave me.

It was a fight to get out past the pummelling surf. The waves hit against my chest, sending icy shock throughout my body. Then we made it. As we settled, chin-deep into the rolling water, my aunt said: 

“Look how comfortable we are with discomfort.”

This has become a mantra of mine not only for cold dips, but also in life.

The practice of cold dipping, for me, has mainly functioned as an almost forced meditation. But there are multiple benefits from the activity, some of which I have also experienced.

Several cultures throughout history have used cold water therapy. The Greeks used cold baths for hygiene and health, while the Ancient Egyptians practiced cold dipping for purification and enlightenment, to name two.

The practice of immersing oneself in cold water throughout the week is linked to improving circulation and sleep quality, increasing energy, boosting the immune system, and helping the body heal from injury.

I often experience a rush of excited energy, especially after longer dips. My sleep is deeper and more restful. I am more confident in my body. Perhaps the most impactful part for me has been the way that the cold immediately draws me out of my head and forces my brain into stillness.

Lydia and I traded Maffeo Sutton to Westwood Lake as our new location of choice around March. We started reaching six or eight minutes per weekly session. Sometimes one wasn’t enough, and I began to use cold dips–on my own–to reset my nervous system when I felt anxiety flooding in.

I don’t have a car and it’s not always practical to get to the lake by bus between work and classes. For several months, I would use my tub.

There is nothing more peaceful than the mountains around the lake at sunset. My beige tub, on the other hand, is cramped, uncomfortable, and isn’t deep enough for a full submersion. And staring at the sad, blue shower curtain is far from inspiring.

I began to use these solo immersions as opportunities to meditate on and connect with the Divine. I listened to podcast studies of scripture while I lay in the frigid tub; it was something to focus on, so I wasn’t just waiting to reach my end point.

On the weekends when I had more opportunities to visit the lake, I used the time to reflect on my day and where I saw the Divine in it. As I entered into the water, I invited the Divine to meet me there.

While this time was not earth-shattering with revelations, I was often met with an all-encompassing sense of peace and a fresh perspective on what I had been through.

On the beach after I dried off and bundled myself into my sweater, I would sit on one of the driftwood logs and drink tea. In these moments of peace, the refrains from old hymns would come to mind so strongly I couldn’t help but sing them.

The arrival of summer brought the end of the cold dipping season until fall. I became engrossed with internships and magazines, and my practice of intentional stillness was left by the wayside.

The busyness of life didn’t slow down in September, either. A week into school, I told my therapist I thought I needed medication; she told me I was taking on too much.

Lydia and I started our next season of weekly dips during a weekend trip to Ucluelet at the end of September. I was excited, not only to return to the water, but to find myself there as I had before.

It was a Sunday morning before breakfast. We missed dawn by a few minutes, but the sky was still glowing.

The Lighthouse Loop is several kilometres of winding woodland trails along the weathered shoreline of Amphitrite Point. Finding a spot to safely reach the ocean was harder than we thought.

Eventually, we reached a rocky little beach that was protected by small islets and boulders just off the shore.

We stumbled out—the tide was lower than anticipated—avoiding barnacles and slippery seaweed. I settled into the gentle rocking of the water when something bright caught my eye. An anemone, the size of my palm and lime-coloured, was perched on a smooth rock. Its sticky tentacles swayed gently in the shallow waters next to me. 

There have been several moments where I’ve stopped and slowed down to take in the beauty of the world around me over the last couple of months. In October, I beat my personal best, spending 15 minutes in blissful tranquillity. When I got out and dried off, several hundred crows flew overhead; a smudge against the sky.

In early December, the itch to go for a dip drew me from bed sooner than usual. The sun was just starting to rise but I couldn’t see it yet.

I stood on the shore, toes in the sand. The fog was so dense that I couldn’t separate water from air.

As I entered the water, the ripples were my only indication of spatial grounding. It was as though I stood on the edge of the world.

Back on the shore, I could hardly believe I had been in the water, or that there was any water at all. It felt like a dream.