Come on in, the water’s freezing!

On taking the plunge and adapting to discomfort

Your Five-Year Plan is a newsletter about embracing life’s profound uncertainty.

Maybe your own plans went up in flames; maybe you’re considering a big, scary leap. This is your trusty companion while you’re writing the next life chapter.

Welcome to the conversation—and to the adventure that unfolds when your plans go sideways. This is letter #16. ✨

☀️ How was your week?

Last week, paid subscribers received a special edition of the newsletter. We talked about the gifts we gave our Present and Future Selves in July. As for mine:

• An indulgent (solo) dinner date. Sometimes, food is fuel; other times, it’s an opportunity to practice treating ourselves like someone special. Because, of course, we all are.

• Outsourcing a home improvement project—one that opened up physical and emotional space. On how a Container Store employee named Brianne paved the way for me to unpack some figurative (and literal) baggage.

🎁 The gifts I gave myself in July 2023

On to today’s letter!

Come on in, the water’s freezing!

A very snowy Crater Lake, captured on Kodak Portra 400 film

“Ready, set, go!” My boyfriend preemptively winces in pain. I click “start” on the timer as his body disappears into the Puget Sound.

He’s decided to experiment with daily cold plunges into the 54-degree water. His goal: remain submerged up to his shoulders for ten minutes. (Apparently, the Internet says that there are Reasons to torture oneself in this particular way!)

Because I am not a masochist, I do not partake. But because I am a sadist supportive girlfriend, I tag along each day, gamely manning my iPhone timer, drinking in the sights and sounds, and throwing him a towel or dry item of clothing at the appropriate moment.

Day three. I sit comfortably on a weathered piece of driftwood, watching the undulating waves sweep over the sound. Across the water, ten minutes away by ferry, are the shores of Vashon Island.

Repeatedly, I’m asked to provide time checks. “Eight minutes left,” I report dutifully.

“Seriously?” he asks, in disbelief that his all-consuming suffering has, so far, added up to a duration of just two minutes. Every so often, he emits a sound that—disturbingly—evokes wounded-animal vibes.

Children splash into the water up to their ankles, openly giggling at the grown man who is hating everything about his life, and is very bad at hiding it. Parents perched on beach chairs call out to him: “Looks like it’s really cold out there!”

“Yup!” he responds, grinding his molars together.

The air temperature is well into the eighties, but he cranks the heat on the drive home.

Day seven. Today, he meets two other women in the water.

No need for jealousy; rather, this marks a reprieve from the constant time-check requests and wounded-animal noises I’ve endured all week.

He’s drawn into conversation, which is a generous term for “words exchanged in between shivers.” I breathe in a salt-air sigh of relief, kick off my sandals, and relax onto my driftwood perch.

Snippets of their dialogue waft through the air. They’re members of the Puget Sound Plungers, having found each other on Facebook; communal suffering, understandably enough, is easier to endure than solo suffering.

Lorraine and her fellow plunger appear to be in their seventies, bedecked in bright floral one-pieces and swim caps. They bob in the water with relaxed smiles as my boyfriend—normally an intimidating physical presence—shakes like a paper doll in the wind, asking incredulous-sounding questions about how they seem so…happy to be there?

“You’ve got to breathe! Stay in your body,” Lorraine counsels him. “And don’t push yourself too hard at first. Give it time. Tolerance grows with practice.” She’s brought her phone into the ocean in a waterproof case, and scans through her notifications every so often, as if she were lounging around the house on a lazy Sunday morning. Lorraine is a cool customer.

They generously pass along more hard-won wisdom, staying in longer than intended but seemingly no worse for the wear.

When they step out of the water, they begin their post-plunge ritual: towel off, throw on terrycloth muumuus that serve as modesty tents, and change out of their wet clothing underneath. They have the whole thing down to a science; they’re done in less than two minutes.

Dry and cheerful, they depart with waves and encouraging grins, off to enjoy the rest of their day. “Good luck!” they say. He waves back, attempting a smile through chattering teeth.

Day fourteen. We arrive at the beach midday; the sun is blazing, so I search for a driftwood seat in the shade.

Ten minutes elapse. For the first time, I have to wave my arms windmill-style to get his attention when the clock runs out.

“You’re done!” I announce, gathering his towel and thermos of tea, expecting an imminent return to dry land. But he’s busy watching a Golden Retriever play fetch nearby, and looking beyond to snowcapped Mount Rainier in the distance.

“Let’s go for another five!”

We can—and do—adapt to discomfort, whether it’s the side effect of a plunge we’ve chosen to take, or the result of being pushed unceremoniously into the deep end.

As I’ve been reminded these last few weeks: it helps to breathe and stay grounded in the present moment. To go easy on yourself, to forestall a flooded nervous system. To understand that your comfort zone will expand in due time. And that community can help you get there.

And sometimes—even with the knowledge that new, unknown forms of discomfort lie beneath the surface—we find that it’s more uncomfortable to stay planted on the shore than to brave the uncertain, uncharted, inviting waters that await.

💬 What do you think?

I’m curious to hear from you. When’s the last time you took a (figurative) plunge? How did you adapt to the discomfort that followed?

Had your own plan-in-flames experience? Taking a leap into the unknown? I’d love to hear more. Just hit “reply” to get in touch, or introduce yourself here.

Warmly,
Maddie