On Cold Water

The shock is the first thing.

Always.

It doesn’t matter how many times I step into it,
a river, the ocean, a steel tub in the backyard,
my breath still shortens.

My skin tightens like it’s trying to hold onto something
that doesn’t belong to it anymore.

The cold takes me out of my head.
Which is exactly the point.
There are no emails here.
No arguments I’m still replaying.
No need to perform.

Just the body,
the breath,
and the clarity that comes
with both.

It’s not about toughness.
It’s about return.

To now.
To nerve endings.
To knowing I’m still here.

I don’t always want to do it.
But I never regret it.

Sometimes, clarity doesn’t arrive in a moment of stillness.
Sometimes it comes when the cold slaps you honest.