The Hole in the Ice That Rewired My Mind

Four years ago, if you had told me that one day I would willingly cut a hole in a frozen lake and submerge myself in it, I would have laughed—politely at first, then with concern for your mental health. If you had added that I would grow so attached to this winter ritual that I’d crave it, depend on it, even shape my days around it, I might have checked whether you were joking. Or hallucinating.

Yet here I am.

My first encounter with ice swimming happened around Christmas, four winters ago. It was exactly as awful as you’d expect. Brutal. Shocking. Over in roughly two seconds. I emerged gasping, limbs screaming, brain convinced I had made a terrible mistake.

That part didn’t surprise me.

What did surprise me was what came next.

Despite the cold—or maybe because of it—I felt incredible. Electrified. Alive in a way I hadn’t felt for years. Every nerve in my body seemed to wake up at once. There was a deep, physical pride too: I had done something I genuinely believed I wasn’t capable of doing. I had faced discomfort and survived it.

That feeling lingered.

The first winter after that plunge was inconsistent. Short dips. Hesitation. Plenty of excuses. But then something shifted. My partner and I committed to going every day for two weeks. And with each day, the experience changed. The cold didn’t disappear, but it softened. What once felt unbearable became tolerable. Then enjoyable. Then oddly calming.

This winter, we took the ritual a step further. After years of talking about it, we finally did it—we made our own hole in the ice. Until now, we had used the official ice swimming spot in Rovaniemi. It’s wonderful, but still… shared. And for me, ice swimming isn’t social.

It’s private.

It’s quiet. Meditative. I don’t want conversation before or after. I want stillness. Ice swimming is the rare moment where my mind empties itself without effort. Where thinking stops.

From a psychological perspective, ice swimming is often praised for its physical benefits: improved circulation, reduced inflammation, enhanced immune response, better breathing control, and even pain reduction. Those are all welcome bonuses.

But for me, the real transformation happens in the mind.

Ice swimming is discipline in its purest form. No one is forcing me into that water. There is no reward waiting except the one I give myself. Each morning I choose discomfort over comfort, resistance over avoidance. And in doing so, I prove something important—to myself.

I am capable of doing hard things.

When I step into that hole, the world narrows. There is no space for anxiety, self-doubt, or mental noise. There is only the water, my breath, the ice framing the opening, and the sky above me. For a brief, blissful moment, nothing else exists. No worries. No future. No past.

Just presence.

That presence carries over into the rest of my life. Ice swimming reminds me that the unimaginable is often just unfamiliar. That not seeing the entire path doesn’t mean the path doesn’t exist. When I take action—any action—clarity follows.

Each swim lasts only a couple of minutes, but its psychological impact stretches across my entire day.

It helps me get out of bed when comfort whispers that I should stay. It pushes me to go for a run instead of reaching for sugar and distraction. It gives me the courage to negotiate higher rates in my freelance work, even when talking about money makes me uneasy. It strengthens my belief in myself when doubt tries to take over.

I do uncomfortable things because I know I can. I prove it to myself every single time I enter that icy water.

Of course, I still think there’s something slightly unhinged about voluntarily freezing yourself for personal growth. But maybe that’s the point. A little bit of craziness seems necessary if we want to grow beyond the limits our minds try to impose.

Without that edge of “crazy,” our brains would talk us out of growth every time. And the strange thing is, the more often we step outside our comfort zone, the less intimidating it becomes.

Like swimming in ice.

Maybe ice swimming is madness. Maybe it’s the sanest thing I do all winter. Most likely, it’s both.

What I know for sure is this: it’s a ritual I love. One that has reshaped my resilience, my discipline, and my relationship with discomfort—far more than I ever expected from a hole in the ice.