Early morning, I slipped into the cold waters of Lake Michigan. The shock woke every nerve. Each breath of mine had to be drawn deeper than was comfortable. Heartbreak clung as tightly as the chill. The mornings are often like this. Here on the shore of the great lake, there was no breeze, no ripple. In the stillness, I felt a small shift. The water didn’t erase the hurt, as I was hoping it might have, but it reminded me I could carry sorrow and still move forward. Because I know that I can swim and trust my body’s strength. Because I know that each deeply drawn breath of mine is me trusting life’s return. Walking back to dry sand, I asked: For how long must I swim in the cold? For how long must I draw deeper breaths than what are comfortable? I dripped clean, but not entirely free, just willing to begin again. The sun was coming up. I answered myself: As long as I must. Then dried off to dress for the day ahead.