Chicagoans approach winter as a combat sport, something to muscle through. Heading out, we assume a stance of both fight and flight. Our shoulders press into our ears, our foreheads scrunch, our bodies curl around themselves in tight formation, armadillo-style. We get small and go fast.

Winter swimming in the lake has helped me to embrace rather than try to escape the clutch of winter. Instead of hanging up my fins in the autumn, I keep going, joining a small group of swimmers at dawn, each of us determined to enter the water every day, despite the ice, snow, and frequent wicked winds. 

There’s no defense against the cold of a cold lake. No specialized gear will keep the frigid water entirely out. Move too quickly getting in, you could fall. Linger, you might get stuck, like an ice-encrusted barnacle. Against all your instincts, you surrender to the water. Breathe in all the prickly complexity of how it feels to be truly cold, inside the very heart of winter, a state of total vulnerability and absolute strength.