When COVID hit, none of us really envisaged how much grief we’d experience, how much we’d lose, or how our lives would change irreversibly. For many of us, dealing with anxiety is nothing new, but the changes we’re all experiencing and the ways in which we are responding to this crisis are unprecedented. So much so, that even those normally unscathed by mental illness find themselves shaken to the core.

When your life shifts beneath you, you have little choice but to move. Like many, the river is my go-to place. Where I can tread water, wade in the shallows and open myself up to the elements. So, in this moment of fear, I swim, I journal, I record, I memorise. These are some of the moments in time, fragments, that I share with you. The small ‘big’ things that I have learned to be grateful for. Here are five of them.

The Rivers’ Colours

The river really knows what it is to be human. To be light and dark, fast and slow, strong and steadfast.  Ju and I stand in awe of the swirling eddies and strange ripple formations after the recent rains. We enter via the steps, where there is no current and we can watch the river carve its relentless path. Just like the ebb and flow, we swimmers seem to become a part of nature and nature becomes a part of us. Ju’s soft Irish curls seem to fuse with the branches of the willow tree. Where does one end and the other begin?

She laughs uproariously at how we are being mercilessly pushed back by the iron flow. And, in meeting this muscular wall of resistance, we let it all go and are jettisoned backwards. Then I realise that there’s strength in our vulnerability. I will just have to learn to sit with this pain a little while longer.

Swim Angels

I can’t ‘feel ‘joy’ right now – what is that, even? It’s a cruel irony that my attempts to switch off from this pain preoccupy every waking second. Technology takes all of my attention. I take to social media in a frenzied google search of cure-alls for depression and anxiety. My head is shrinking – there’s little space or light.

And then. At last. There is.

Tonight, I have an evening dip under the watchful eye of my fellow companion, Ali, who sits quietly on a bench whilst I dip. She’s brought me a tin of peanut butter cookies and a flask of tea. Quietly, I immerse myself in the water. I am safe here, cushioned from the flow. In the stillness I observe gravity on my body, but my mind wanders freely, and – for a time – without fear. I float alone but feel so connected to everything around me.

Under the flamingo pink sky, I am relieved that the darkness of winter is finally receding. I’m glad to be in the presence of a dear friend who has my back, in good times and in bad. And as much as I’m ‘held’ tightly by this body of water, I’m also held by the friendships I cherish and love. Swim angels as I like to call them. There’re a few who are very close to my heart.

I get dry and she hands me my own hot water bottle – a red knitted one which I clutch, shivering, to my chest.

Our Temple Changing Room

It’s sunrise and my hair is already damp. Delicious and dewy underfoot this morning. The blue cerulean sky is so full of promise that I’m reminded of lockdown swims when time expanded and the skies were empty. Echoes of childhood. Today on the Garrick Temple steps, we still marvel at our winter changing room. Our very own Parthenon. The perfect backdrop to our watery based discussions and philosophy. Winter or Summer? Sunrise or Sunset? Sea or River?

Sal compares the character of the river with the sea. I am enchanted by her enthusiasm. The river, she explains, is all meditative and mindfulness. The place where we pootle and are at peace. The sea, by contrast, is a much more complex soul, with a ‘’f**k you’’ mentality. The sea surely breaks us down and blasts away our cobwebs. I like this analogy. When she talks of her trips to Falmouth, Sal reminisces about her pit stop sea swims with her boys’ ex-headmistress (Sarah) in Sidmouth. I like the sound of her! She even brings her own shots of homemade gin.

The warmth of Sal glowing from the outside in makes me smile. I engrave these images in my mind for later, for when the darkness will surely return.

Nature’s Miracle

A Baltic air blasts us with a -2 degree windchill and there’s frisson of excitement in the swim community today!

It’s below five degrees which makes it our first ice swim IN THE SNOW. Not any old flakes, but the proper alpine variety! On any other day, of any other year, this would be magical. But I’m sobbing before I get into the water. To battle yourself on a daily basis is hard, but to take this on with the winter temperatures is even more so. In the words of a Dales Dipper there’s ‘’No faffin’’ (I wear the T Shirt emblazoned with this hashtag).

In the white light, as we shiver into the silver slipstream, nature dazzles us. Lining the riverside, we see nine fluffy bundles huddled together. They are a family of Egyptian goslings. How they can possibly survive one of the coldest winters coming from the banks of the Nile, is truly an impressive feat. One of nature’s miracles! Afterwards, we furtively wrestle with our change of clothes in Ali’s car. The heating can’t come on fast enough. We have simultaneously lost the power of speech. Neither of us has uttered three words since we entered and exited the water. Some swims are over too soon, even those that cause us the greatest pain.

I have survived my coldest ever swim. And guess what? I’m still alive. I have to tell myself this each time I find myself rolling in the darkness. I say a prayer of thanks out loud to Dr Thames.

The Struggle

Sometimes the swim is all about the struggle. Today is this. We begin at Garrick’s steps. The battle against the flow commences. Sal forges ahead with supernatural strength, whilst I’m left gasping for air. I talk myself through the motions of breath and stroke, whilst trying desperately to inch myself forward a few millimetres.

I observe how the temperature burns between my thighs and the ice flows through my veins. Sal jokes about her left toe being incapacitated. Why not her right one, I ask? This utter hocus pocus of the river is fascinating and makes us living proof that we are true heroines. We laugh as we relive our swim journey to the present day. How could we possibly imagine we’d be ice swimming this time last year? It’s unthinkable.

We talk of post swim food. Sal mentions SOS star baker Sue’s freshly baked and buttered sourdough and I start to dream of her legendary lemon marmalade. And for the first time in ages, I can feel my tummy rumbling. That’s a good sign. The river is gently coaxing me back to myself.

In this moment, I’m reminded that our superpowers are often born out of the things that make us most human.Vulnerability is what lets the world in. It’s where the magic happens. So, as a Mental Health Swims co-host, I’m really excited to be part of this extraordinary community, one which has emerged from this collective suffering. One which has shaped our lives forever.