Going Under

by Sara Flitner

I recently found myself taking a cold plunge, which is wildly uncharacteristic considering that I hate being cold as much as I hate bullying. Also, it was something I’d sworn I had no interest in, would never do. “Life has enough unpleasantness,” I told my sons throughout their childhood, as they tried to coax me into freezing water at every chance.  

But I was with a friend from out of town, and after spending some time in the hospitable comfort of Astoria’s hot springs, he suggested we try the cold plunge. He’d done it before but was looking for moral support. I was as surprised as he was to hear myself saying, “OK. I’ll try it.” I didn’t really think my body would allow itself to be lowered into icy water, so I still had an out.  

Conventional wisdom holds that growth comes from pain and challenge, not from comfort, I reminded myself as I slipped into the intense cold with feet, then legs, and finally full torso. All thoughts vacated. The physical experience was so extreme that all my effort was spent just taking in oxygen as I sputtered. I was still trying to catch my breath when I got the two-minute signal and scrambled out of the frigid pool, walking back and forth for a minute or two before finding the warm pool again.   

As warmth returned to my body and my friend coaxed me into the full protocol of two more plunges, curiosity took over.  On the subsequent rounds, I made it two and a half, then almost three minutes, as another soaker and cold-plunge enthusiast, a young man from San Diego, coached us along. “Put your hands and arms fully in the water,” he’d suggested on the second round, noticing how I had held them out the first time.   

In the second cycle, there was only intensity in my arms and hands. On the third cycle, our plunge coach encouraged more insanity: “Lower your head beneath the surface and exhale.” I got my head below the surface, for nowhere near the length of an exhale, and then all sensation was at my head. Each time, some different way of being shocked presented itself, and my attention went with it. The sensation was so intense that it was beyond words to label it. Completing it made me feel like I had really broken through something.  

There’s good research on emotional regulation that unpacks my experience a bit. As it turns out, going toward uncomfortable situations – our emotions, public speaking, icy cold plunges, opening oneself to different viewpoints – is a proven path to greater resilience and equanimity (the ability to stay calm in the face of adversity or discomfort). If we can face something we would prefer not to face, we grow both these attentional muscles and our confidence in our ability to weather storms. Over time, when we learn to face difficult things – including our own emotions and thoughts – in a more neutral way, our sense of well-being and safety increases. Symptoms of anxiety and depression decrease.  

Facing something challenging and getting to the other side feels good, and I certainly experienced that. What surprised me the most, however, wasn’t how unpleasant the water was or even how the time passed. The intensity of the sensations was such a novel experience—also good for mental fitness— that all labels and assessments dissolved, and I was left only with the symphony of physical sensations. It was weirdly positive, the ability to simply and directly experience something.  

I don’t think the road to mental steadiness has to be the same for all of us, and I don’t expect to see the cold plunge overflowing with BJW readers in the future, but I invite you to be open to new things, and especially any way you end up surprising yourself. 

I left Astoria with a completely clear head and a little more courage.  

Don’t be surprised if you see me back there again soon.