I wake at six. It is still dark, the world quiet and asleep. I go to my favorite beach and take a seat on the sand, looking out over the horizon. Rays of light foretell the sun that is just about to rise. On cloudy mornings, there is a knowing of it – a felt sense of the sun rising from behind the horizon line.
I close my eyes and land. There is a stillness in the dawning of the day. The gentle rustling in the trees behind me, the gulls crying. The air is salt and sky and life itself. I breathe in, I breathe out, I breathe with it. I am present. I sit in meditation for some time, being present with this, just taking it all in, being with the essence of life and the steady pulse of all living things.
Then I get ready for the water. I notice the resistance – as much as I love this practice, the resistance is always there, as a constant companion. I stay with it. I don’t push it away, and I don’t let it become me.
And then I step into the cold.
The water bites as I walk in, icy fingers creeping up my legs. I lower myself further, until I am fully submerged. My entire being in shock. My body in survival mode. The first moments are chaos, my mind searching for an escape. I notice the urge to disappear into thought – hot bath later, breakfast, work… anything but this. And I bring myself back. Back into this moment, into the here and now, into the resistance, into the sensation, into the being. Not as a festering in it, but as an allowing – letting it be, without it becoming me.
Every cell in my body screams no. And I breathe. I hold myself steady. I deepen into my knowing: I am not my body. I am not my mind. I am in my body, and I am fine. And – this too is just an experience, a brief blip in time, as fleeting as my entire life in the vast universe.
Then, about a minute in, something shifts. There is an arrival, a landing – in my body, in my being, in the present moment. Chaos softens. Stillness settles like snow on water. My edges dissolve. I am the water. I am the world. I am existence itself. Time ceases, and I exist fully.
Every molecule around me – the water, the trees, the horizon, the birds – connects through the same shared pulse of life. I open my eyes and feel the immensity of being alive. Ineffable and whole. Life pulses in everything, and I pulse with it. I am with it. I am it.
There is something very profound, very alive, very “all and everything and nothing” in these minutes. I am one with everything. I am whole. The movement of the world and of the mind fall into the background – not because I tune out, but because it no longer touches me, I am no longer identifying with it.
My breath becomes the anchor. I exist and I am existence itself. I sink into the experience that each breath holds the entire universe – everything that ever was, everything that ever will be, everything that is.
I am an expression of God, experiencing itself through me.
I could sit in meditation for an hour and touch a similar state, but nothing brings me here like the cold water. Cold plunging is medicine. It is a portal. A fast track to presence, to life itself, to God – to Spirit, to Source – whatever we choose to call it.
A Little History Behind the Practice
Cold baths are not new. Ancient Greeks and Romans bathed in icy water for vitality; Nordic cultures embraced winter swimming for resilience. Athletes have long used ice baths for recovery. Wim Hof brought this practice into modern consciousness: breath, mindset, and cold combined, showing that humans could survive – and even thrive – in extreme conditions. His personal journey, born from profound grief and loss, revealed that the intensity of the cold can open a doorway through pushing beyond physical limitations.
Science followed. Research has shown consistent practice, around eleven minutes a week, can increase dopamine, improve stress resilience, activate brown fat, reduce inflammation, strengthen the nervous system, and sharpen mental clarity.
For me, science is only a small part of it. The real magic is experiential. It lives in the water, in the cold, in the moment where I move beyond what I thought was possible. In meeting intensity without collapse. In the clarity, presence, and aliveness that rise in it.
Listening to the Body
It is important to remember that not everything is for everyone. As with any practice, we are asked to listen – to our body, our system, our own inner knowing. For some, or at certain times, cold plunging can be too much. It can dysregulate, and it can even re-traumatize if not approached with awareness. It may also not be in alignment with our current health, our hormonal system, our overall physiology, or other internal systems, nor in alignment with certain doshas in Ayurvedic frameworks.
In the beginning of my cold plunging journey, I went every day. And then, at some point, something in me said no. And so I stopped. Over time, I found my rhythm. Now it changes. I follow what feels right. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice, sometimes more, sometimes not at all. I don’t chase it. I don’t force it. I show up, I listen, I breathe.
The Medicine
Cold plunging is not limited to the body. It is about presence. It is about finding stillness in the heart of chaos, meeting intensity without collapse, and feeling life in all its rawness. It is a fast track to presence, to stillness.
It has taught me resilience – not in a forceful way, but as a quiet knowing that I can fully be with what is. That nothing is permanent. That everything I experience is just that – an experience, a brief moment in time.