This afternoon I was humming.
Shimmering.
Shimmying and shaking.
I was doing good—and then the next purpose arrived like a herald from the heavens.
Time to get wet.
Time to get into the ice.
Time to feel alive.
I had momentum.
Real momentum.
The kind that lives in the body
before the mind gets involved.
Chest warm.
System leaning forward.
The ice was already a yes.
Then—
pause.
Laundry.
Sweaters.
Soft things in my hands.
Domestic gravity.
And something dropped.
Not emotionally.
Chemically.
The fire in my chest dimmed.
The edge went quiet.
I got cold before the cold.
By the time I stepped outside,
the tub looked mean.
Huge chunks.
Jagged.
Floating like broken teeth.
That fucking ice was COLD.
Not ceremonial cold.
Not crisp-morning cold.
This was the kind that bites
because you hesitated.
Same water.
Same temp.
Different nervous system.
Warm → cool → doubt → cold.
My breath shattered on impact.
Jaw locked.
Every cell screamed,
what the fuck are you doing.
And here’s the thing I’m learning in this Field Log season:
Momentum isn’t motivation.
It’s chemistry.
Approach energy.
Dopamine.
Adrenaline.
A narrow window where the body is already moving
and the mind hasn’t started negotiating.
Interrupt that arc
and the body has to climb the hill again—
against comfort,
against homeostasis,
against the voice that says,
“later is safer.”
Excitement doesn’t survive negotiation.
Still—I went in.
No hype.
No pump-up speech.
No bravado.
Just contact.
And that matters.
Because entering the ice without excitement
is a deeper rep.
Choosing contact after hesitation
is advanced training.
So there’s no moral here.
No sermon.
No self-improvement poster.
Just respect for timing.
For rhythm.
For that split second when the body leans forward
and says now.
Sometimes the work isn’t pushing harder.
Sometimes it’s just going
when you’re already warm.