It begins in the pale hush before sunrise. The jungle barely stirs, only a few birdcalls and the nervous laughter of a family and their friends gathering beneath the canopy. Faces tight, eyes darting to the steel tub brimming with ice. Steam from mugs, clenched hands. Smiles that say, “I’m fine,” but feet shuffle and jokes sting the air. You can smell the fear, sharp as the air above the water.
Before we begin, I sit on my heels in the dewy grass. Quietly, without words, I offer a small prayer. “Que se encuentren a sí mismos después de este aliento.” May they meet themselves on the other side of this breath.
Resistance
Resistance is easy to recognize. It’s a shoulder turned away, a smirk when someone tries to sound brave. It’s the cheerful dismissals, “I’m just here for moral support,” and the whispered bargains: “Maybe just my feet.” These are old shields. The body keeps you safe by holding tight. It’s human. But that safety is a box. So, I invite them to let it crack.
The Breath
We begin with breath: not a trick, not a contest, simply the old rhythm of in, out, again. I don’t speak of ancient yogis or research papers. I speak of softening. I move with them, and the air grows thick with something like trust. The jokes lose their edge; someone lets out a shaky sigh. We follow the count together, inhale, hold, exhale, hold, until it no longer matters who’s done this before.
Taking the First Step
No one wants to be first. But when a teenage daughter, the one who claimed she hated cold, steps up, everything changes. The water bites, and she gasps, but she does not leave. Her body shakes, but she finds my eyes, and the group—strangers, aunts, fathers—stop breathing for a moment. Then, all together, they breathe with her. What began as watching turns to witnessing, then to belonging. Someone shouts encouragement, another sings a silly song just to break the tension, and the girl stays until tears spring up, not from cold now, but from somewhere much older.
Barriers Fall
One by one, the barriers fall. Laughter gives way to groans, then to raw, open noise, a wail, a sob, a prayer mumbled into cuffed hands. No one hides on the edge. The mother who came “just to take photos” is now up to her neck beside her best friend, the only sound their breathing in the brightening day.
The Space Between
And I, once orchestrator, now just a vessel, watch the space between people melt and re-form. The ritual guides itself. It feels less like work, more like tending a holy fire: giving structure, yes, but letting what is true emerge. This is service. Entregar el ego, let yourself be a channel for whatever wants to move through the room.
I have learned: Our resistance is rarely about the water or the cold or the group. It’s the ancient fear of feeling, stripped of all props. But the breath is the bridge. Each inhale, each shared heartbeat—una reunión, a reunion with what’s inside, and with each other.
So I ask you now, where do you brace? Where in your body do you feel the urge to clench or joke or look away, to keep things at safe distance? Can you stay with that? With one breath, and then another?
Close your eyes for a moment. Notice what part tenses up when you imagine something new, something unknown. Breathe there. Don’t force it open. Just let it soften, a little.
Maybe today, you offer that same space, to yourself or to another, just long enough for a real inhale to land.
Rafa
