Trading Land for Water: Grief, Identity & the Medicine of Wild Swimming

You might want to grab a cup of tea - this is a long one ;)

I didn’t know how much I would grieve the loss of my gardens.

For as long as I can remember, growing and gathering food and medicine has been how I stayed in rhythm with the seasons. Spring brought the birth of tiny seedlings and the joy of putting my hands in the soil. Summer offered nourishment — wild herbs, sun-warmed berries, the quiet tending of beans and peas. Autumn gave us roots and rest. Gardening and foraging weren’t just hobbies. They were how I listened to the land, how I stayed well. They were my medicine.

For a decade we lived on a hobby farm and had such abundance of good soil and food we ran a CSA farm share for a few years.

When we moved two years ago, I knew we were trading land for water. I thought I’d find a new rhythm. The garden beds here looked promising and I imagined them coming back to life. But it’s been like trying to grow food in the shadows. The sun barely touches most of the land. The soil is shallow, depleted. Even with new compost, heirloom seeds, and plenty of care, nothing takes root. A few twisted beans. Yellowed peas. A handful of undersized strawberries from plants that once gave us baskets.

It’s heartbreaking. Every time.

I’ve tried growing in buckets on the dock. Building raised beds in the few sunny spots. Hoping. Starting over. Letting go. Still, nothing grows.

This loss might sound simple, maybe even silly from the outside. But when something lives at the core of who you are, its absence is disorienting. I’ve lost the rhythm I relied on from Spring to Fall. I’ve lost a way of nourishing myself — in every sense. I’ve lost a part of my identity.

Who am I if I’m not a gardener or forager? Where do I go when my happy place is gone? Some days, I still try. But more often, I sit with the grief. And lately, I’ve found myself being drawn somewhere else.

Not to the Earth, but to the Water.

Wild swimming wasn’t something I expected to lean on. At first, it was just a way to cool off… to feel something. But over time, it’s become a kind of medicine too — a different kind. The Lake asks nothing of me. No tending. No harvest. Just breath, body, presence.

On calm days, the Water feels smooth and silky against my skin. I notice the sound of my breath, the shape of my body through the Water, the birds, the insects. I see treasures floating around me like a tiny feather or seed and feel deep gratitude to such a perfect gift! When I swim on my back I feel the world widen above me — dragonflies zigzagging, birds circling, clouds forming new shapes with each passing minute.

Is there anything more perfect than a milkweed seed dancing on the water?

On windy days, the waves rock my body and I have to time my breath with their rhythm. It’s messy. Unpredictable. And strangely exciting!

Every swim is different. That’s what keeps me coming back.

Now, each day, I go to my sit spot by the Lake and open my heart. It feels raw and vulnerable, but the sounds, the smell, the reflection, the cleansing of the Water soothes me.

I ask myself: Can I shift my grounding practices from Earth to Water? Can a person change that much?

It seems this is the way in front of me, but it feels so unnatural!

Water has always held deep meaning across cultures — known for its cleansing and calming properties, its maternal wisdom, its ability to both heal and deconstruct. It is the element of transformation and rebirth. When I hold that in my heart, something in me softens. Aligns. This is what led me to creating a new nature therapy experience 'Bathing in Blue Mindfulness' which is a gift to guide.

One day, while swimming on my back, something extraordinary happened!

The Sky stretched wide above me, the Water held me below. As I drifted, I noticed a turkey vulture circling overhead. I’ve seen them many times before, but always high in the sky— never this close to the Water. This one dipped lower. Then lower still. It glided directly above me — silent, steady, closer than I’d ever seen one come. Maybe it was curious? Maybe it saw something in me — a kind of stillness or surrender? Or maybe it was something more. A witness. A messenger.

Turkey vultures became kin for me that day.

Turkey vultures are often misunderstood — yet they are powerful symbols of transformation. They turn death into nourishment. They ride the thermals with grace and patience. They trust the currents.

In that moment, I felt… seen. And strangely, I felt ready.

Wild swimming has become an integral part of my life. It doesn’t feed the longing to plant and gather in the way gardening once did — but it offers something else. A way of being held. A way of remembering that I, too, am part of Nature’s changing rhythm.

And as I write this, I feel the grief rise again.

Perhaps it’s the longing. The need for this to be enough. Perhaps it’s that in writing this, I’m acknowledging a threshold — and choosing to step over it with an open heart? I trust that the Earth, the Water, and all of Life will continue to hold me, nurture me, and guide me.

Thank you for reading this deeply personal reflection.

Until next time...

Fresh from a Wild Swim!