Rewilding Through Heat and Cold
Saunas, cold water, and the quiet return of women to each other
I’ve been cold water swimming for around six years now — long before it became a wellness trend, long before ice baths had branding and social media soundtracks.
Back then, many of the places I swam were dominated by triathletes. Lean, fast, competitive bodies slicing through the water with purpose. The energy was performance-driven. Achievement-focused. Quite masculine in tone, even when women were present.
There’s nothing wrong with that.
But it didn’t feel particularly inclusive.
And then, slowly — especially since COVID — something shifted.
Now when I arrive at the water, I see women. So many women. Women in their forties, fifties, sixties and beyond. Women in bright swimsuits and woolly hats. Women with soft bellies, strong thighs, scarred knees. Women letting thighs out, boobs out, letting it all hang out — and somehow, in doing so, owning themselves more fully than I’ve ever seen.
There’s bravery here, yes.
But more than that, there’s freedom.
This isn’t new — we’re remembering
What fascinates me is that none of this is actually new.
In Victorian times, cold water was widely prescribed as therapy — particularly for women. Sea bathing, plunge pools, immersion as restoration. Somewhere along the way, that embodied wisdom slipped out of everyday life.
So what we’re seeing now doesn’t feel like a discovery.
It feels like a remembering.
And that feels deeply reassuring.
Cold water tells the truth
Cold water strips everything back. The moment you step in, there’s no pretending. No multitasking. No numbing out. Your breath demands your attention. Your body tells the truth.
And when you share that moment with other women, something subtle and powerful happens.
There’s an unspoken recognition — you’re part of this too.
Even if you don’t know each other, there’s belonging.
The rise of sauna alongside cold dipping has amplified that. Heat and cold. Expansion and contraction. Softening and awakening. A rhythm the body recognises instinctively.
The sauna makes the cold more accessible. The warmth afterwards invites people in. It allows women who might never have braved icy water alone to experience contrast safely, collectively.
Finding my own way into it
When I first started cold water swimming, I felt like I had to fit in.
I thought I needed to swim front crawl. Fast. Head under. Goggles on. As if that was the “proper” way to do it.
Then one day I realised — I don’t want to do that.
I want to go slowly.
I want my head above the water.
I want to look at the sky and trees.
I want to talk if I’m swimming with a friend.
Cold water wasn’t about achievement for me.
It was about being in the water.
That shift changed everything.
As an open water swimming coach, I’ve spent years introducing women gently — with reassurance, information, and someone beside you. No bravado. No proving. Just support.
That’s when it becomes transformational.
What’s been unfolding this year
In early January, we held two sauna and dip sessions at the lake in Wanstrow.
It was deep winter.
We had to crack through ice to get into the water.
There was something primal about that. Women standing at the edge of a frozen lake, breathing together, stepping in with support. No drama. No performance. Just presence.
At the end of February, 16 women gathered at Rock Farm in Shepton Mallet across two sessions. We began around the fire with a grounding meditation and simple check-in. Some tried cold dipping for the first time. Others moved quietly between sauna and air and heat and cold.
There was laughter.
There was stillness.
There was courage without bravado.
Each time feels different.
Each time, the same thread runs through it: connection.
Watching it unfold in my own mum
I see this most clearly in my own mum.
She has fibromyalgia and a number of long-term health conditions. For years she swam in warm pools. Cold felt like too much.
Then, last year, on a retreat in Ibiza where she swam in the sea — very cold — something shifted.
She wrote to me:
“I’ve always loved swimming (preferably in a warm pool) but last year, on a retreat in Ibiza where we swam in the sea (very cold), something changed. I knew I needed something different.”
Moving to the seaside wasn’t practical, so she invested in a plunge pool. She now dips daily — whatever the weather.
“Whatever the weather or time of day, I love those dips, enjoying the peace, sky and birds in the garden.”
She’d never liked saunas before, finding the heat overwhelming. But gradually she began combining sauna and cold.
“At 68, discovering this new ‘hobby’ has been a delight. My body and mind feel more alive, invigorated and cared for. In fact, I positively crave the cold water (plus sauna whenever possible).”
She has read the books. She knows the research. But what matters most to her isn’t theory.
“Like many my age, I have a selection of long-term health conditions… but what I know is that for me it has become a vital part of my emotional and physical wellbeing — and my nervous system feels soothed.”
Soothed.
Not conquered.
Not forced.
Soothed.
Watching her come alive again — steadily, quietly — has been one of the most powerful reminders that this isn’t about resilience theatre.
It’s about regulation.
It’s about care.
It’s about remembering what the body already knows.
Why this matters now
The world feels complicated. Especially for women.
Many of us were raised between traditional roles and modern independence. We work. We carry invisible labour. We hold emotional weight.
We need spaces to soften.
Sauna and cold dipping — especially in community — offer that.
There’s no agenda.
No expectation to share.
No requirement to be profound.
You can sit quietly.
You can laugh.
You can swear at the cold.
You can breathe.
It’s lightly held.
And because it’s lightly held, something deeper is allowed to happen.
Heat helps us let go.
Cold helps us arrive.
The pause between them is where something shifts.
And when women gather in swimsuits with damp hair and flushed cheeks — sitting side by side in heat and stepping bravely into cold — it doesn’t just feel exhilarating.
It feels like coming home.
And this is continuing
After running a recent poll, it’s clear this isn’t something women want as a one-off winter novelty. There’s a real appetite to keep this going through spring and summer — and we will.
We’ll be alternating between venues:
Rock Farm in Shepton Mallet
Wanstrow Lake when the pop-up sauna returns
Vallis Farm, where we now have access to a beautiful sauna and wild-feeling dipping pool
Different landscapes. Same intention.
The next session at Rock Farm in March still has a few spaces available.
If something in this has stirred curiosity — or if you’ve been quietly thinking maybe I should try that — you’d be very welcome.
You don’t have to be brave.
You don’t have to prove anything.
You just have to arrive.