What ice water dips taught me about comfort zones
We can do hard things.
We’ve recently returned from a trip to Finland, and I keep finding my mind drifting back there – not just to the landscape, but to how it felt to be in my body during that week.
We stayed in a place called Äkäslompolo, deep in the snow, under moonlit skies. The house itself was beautiful, but what made it unforgettable was the ritual that quickly became part of our days: sauna, snow, and ice-cold water.
There was a wood-fired sauna, and about 100 metres away across the snow, a well cut into the ice. The water was kept gently bubbling so it wouldn’t freeze over completely. That first night, we didn’t even attempt the dip. We simply ran out into the snow after the sauna, laughing, shocked by the cold air on our skin, then rushed straight back inside to warmth.
The second night, we tried the water.
It was brief. A few breaths. In and straight back out. Hearts pounding, bodies buzzing, a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration. It felt huge.
But then something interesting happened.
Every night for a whole week, we returned to the same rhythm: heat, cold, breath, presence. And slowly – almost imperceptibly – our comfort zone expanded.
What felt overwhelming on day one became familiar by day three. By the final days of the trip, we were waking up and choosing to run across the snow first thing in the morning, dipping into the ice without drama, without rushing back to the sauna afterwards. Just standing there, breathing, noticing how calm and clear everything felt.
Nothing about the conditions changed. The water was still ice-cold. The snow was still deep. The night air still sharp.
What changed was us.
There was something profoundly powerful about putting ourselves through something that initially felt so challenging – not out of force or bravado, but because it was wrapped in such beauty. Moonlight on snow. Silence. Stillness. The sense of being very small and very alive at the same time.
And that’s where the real shift happened.
Cold exposure has a way of stripping everything back. There’s no space for distraction, overthinking or self-judgement. You are simply there. Breathing. Feeling. Responding. It teaches you, very quickly, that you can stay present inside discomfort – and that discomfort is rarely as dangerous as the mind suggests.
Since coming home, I’ve noticed how different cold water swimming in the UK feels. What once required a long mental negotiation now feels accessible, even welcoming. Not because the water is warmer, but because something internally has changed. My nervous system recognises the experience. There’s trust now.
And that, for me, is the gift of practices like cold water immersion. They don’t just toughen us up – they soften our resistance. They show us, in a very embodied way, that we can meet intensity with steadiness, fear with breath, and challenge with curiosity.
This is why cold water features so intentionally in my retreats. Not as a test, not as something to “push through”, but as an invitation. An invitation to meet yourself honestly. To witness how quickly the edges of your comfort zone can move when you approach them with care, support and beauty.
As we head towards our cold water retreat in February, I keep thinking back to that frozen well in Finland, and to how quietly transformational those moments were. Sometimes it’s not the grand gestures that change us – it’s the simple decision to step in, breathe, and stay present for a few seconds longer than last time.
And before you know it, you’re standing somewhere you never thought you’d be comfortable… feeling calm, capable, and deeply alive.
