Tag: wellness

  • Cold Exposure, Nervous Systems & Why I Voluntarily Freeze for Fun

    There is a very specific cosmic joke reserved for people who enjoy discomfort. In my case, it’s called cold water immersion or going out undressed in freezing temperatures to feel the icy air nibble on my skin. While normal people are inside sipping tea at -4°C, I went swimming in the Black Sea for fun, and then sipped my herbal tea in my thermos at the beach. 

    There is actual science behind this madness, and no, I didn’t arrive here informed, researched, or wearing a lab coat. I stumbled into it the intuitive way: a few years ago I noticed that cold air and cold water calmed my very fried nervous system almost instantly. That was enough proof for me. 

    Let’s dive into the cold waters now.  

    Your nervous system isn’t weak. It just forgot how badass it is. It basically runs on two modes:Sympathetic (fight, flight, panic, existential dread, “why did I send that text”) and Parasympathetic (rest, digest, calm, actual peace).

    Most of us live permanently in the first one.

    Cold exposure forces a controlled shock. It rips you out of autopilot and drops you straight into regulated survival mode. And when you come out of that icy panic bubble alive, your nervous system goes, “Oh. We survived. Cool. Guess we can relax now.” That’s vagus nerve activation, baby. Emotional regulation, improved stress tolerance, less dramatic reactions to life in general.

    Cold water is basically emotional push-ups. When it hits, your body releases endorphins, norepinephrine, and adrenaline: a chemical cocktail that starts as “this is illegal” and ends as “I can handle literally anything now.” Basically my favorite type of cocktail. Too bad they don’t serve it at regular bars. Who wants to open that type of bar with me? Anyhow, over time, your system remembers this. Future stressors feel smaller because your body knows it survived worse.

    And here’s the important part: emotional regulation isn’t just talk therapy. You can journal until your wrist cramps, but if your body doesn’t know how to handle stress, your nervous system won’t either. Cold exposure yanks you out of your head and into your body. Thought spirals stop. Panic becomes manageable. You’re present instead of catastrophizing your entire existence.

    Cold + conscious breathing is where the bliss happens. Your heart races, your breath spikes, muscles tighten. that’s automatic. But if you slow your breathing instead of panicking, and relax your clenching muscles, you’re literally training your brain to stay calm under pressure. That’s neuroplasticity. Every time you relax enough that you don’t shiver, your nervous system levels up.

    And no, this doesn’t make you emotionally numb. Quite the opposite. It builds emotional resilience. You still feel deeply, you just don’t collapse every time life pokes you with a stick. Perhaps soft core, hard shell in action. Which is one of my favorite phrases.

    Because mental strength isn’t a personality trait. It’s a muscle. And just like any muscle, that can be trained. Cold water is nervous system boot camp. Emotional fastball training. A reminder that you can face discomfort, breathe through it, and come out clearer on the other side.

    In my case, cold exposure has evolved from “mental health experiment” to full-blown personality trait. Somewhere between frozen swims and icy air nibbling at my skin, my brain decided this is how we get dopamine now. Is it an addiction? Possibly. But there are worse addictions than voluntarily freezing yourself to feel alive.

    At this point, I’m just hoping to find equally unhinged humans who think a cute date involves cold water, deep breaths, and laughing hysterically afterward. 

    If that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.

  • (Almost) White Christmas

    Yesterday, the air smelled like snow. You know that smell, the kind that sneaks up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and whispers, “Put your expectations down, but trust me anyway.” I didn’t get my hopes up. I never do. I just knew. And sure enough, it snowed. The first snow of the season here.

    Apparently, I don’t just travel with actual baggage; I bring weather systems. Missed the November snow in Bern, caught it back home in Bulgaria. Timing has never been my strongest skill, but when it hits, it hits.

    I’m reunited with my parents and our dogs for Christmas and New Year’s, sitting in my parents’ new handmade sunroom while snow falls politely outside. Courtesy of my father, who can build actual structures with his hands. Which explains… A lot. Apparently this is why I have a soft spot for men who can build things. Especially out of wood. Especially if they don’t need an instruction manual. I, too, have woodworking plans. Turns out it’s genetic. The blueprint was there all along.

    Now, let’s be honest. I’d choose Alpine cold over this humid, windy chaos any day. This is the kind of cold that seeps into your bones uninvited. And yet, yes, I’m still considering a swim in the Black Sea, despite it feeling like minus seven degrees outside. Limits? Never met her. My idea of fun doesn’t need refinement, just a matching level of insanity and other humans who hear “freezing water” and think, “Perfect.” Especially if that’s a mutually agreed first-date plan. 

    After Christmas dinner, and an ambitious amount of mulled wine at apéro, I slept for twelve uninterrupted hours. Twelve. A coma, really. A well-earned one after a week of sleep deprivation and questionable decisions.

    And then… the dreams.

    Three different men starred in them. One by one. Like a rotating cast. I feel dirty, in the best possible way. Real me is on a wholesome family holiday. Dream me, however, had a packed social calendar, dream dates. One was the regular. The recurring character. Always there, stopped complaining about it, there is no point. This time particularly committed to reminding me what I was allegedly missing out on. The other two were new. And new is always delightful. I was eventually pulled back to reality by our puppy launching himself into bed like a furry alarm clock with zero respect for narrative closure. 

    And somewhere between the snow, the wine, the dreams, and the dog hair, it hit me how far I’ve come since September. Back then, I was still mad at him. Actively. Professionally. Now? Life is too good to bother. Plus, I closed the loop. Finally. Turns out some things don’t need force, just timing. And a little snowfall for dramatic effect.

    I’m out. I’m free. Free to live and enjoy the absolute crap out of myself, like a graduate freshly released into the world, slightly unhinged, deeply grateful, and fully convinced that the best part might still be ahead.

    And honestly? I’ll take that kind of white Christmas any year. Light and fluffy. Good vibes, BBQ meats with a side of potato salad with homemade French Dressing. 

  • The Self Care Revelation

    I’m 27 now. And I’m not ashamed to admit that it took me a very long time to understand the concept of self-care. My upbringing was basically a cross between an endurance test and a renovation show. We didn’t “rest.” We tiled. We didn’t unwind. We rebuilt houses. We didn’t go to all included resorts. We worked on the boat. 

    My parents weren’t the “weekend spa trip” kind of parents. They were the “let’s sand the deck and live in the camper van while the house is being built” kind. Every summer had the faint smell of paint thinner, and at least one power tool soundtrack playing in the background. That was our version of a lullaby.

    In my youth-athlete era, my coaches carried the same torch of intensity. Rest days? Optional. Pushing limits? Mandatory. Up until this year, I genuinely believed that the entire point of exercise was to find your breaking point, and then casually jog past it.

    Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But none of them seem to know what “taking a day off” actually means. My grandparents live in the countryside, which basically means their version of retirement is “working forever.” The women handle the house, the men disappear into their basements to “work on projects” (translation: aggressively drilling things for fun). Maybe that is their version of self-care, but honestly, it looks like cardio with tools.

    My mom talks to me about their days. I get tired just by listening about it. “Your dad worked on the staircase he’s building single handedly, and crushed some wood for the fireplace, and oh now he’s wiring some cables in the basement.”

    So, naturally, it took me a while to realize that self-care doesn’t have to involve sweat, sawdust, or physical exhaustion.

    Today, I had a revelation. I realized I had free will and could make myself crepes; just because I wanted to. No birthday, no brunch invite, no celebration. Just… me and a frying pan. I lit candles, put on some music, and even diffused essential oils like I was my own spa therapist. Then I whipped up a homemade Himalayan salt, oil, and rosemary peel because apparently I am now that person.

    Here’s what I’ve learned: self-care doesn’t need to be an all-inclusive spa retreat in Bali (though, if anyone’s offering, I’m in). It can be small, simple, and even slightly chaotic. Maybe your version is retail therapy and buying yourself flowers. Maybe it’s doing face masks while watching conspiracy documentaries. There’s no wrong way to love yourself.

    For me, self-care looks different every day. Sometimes it’s me half-asleep on the couch after giving myself a full massage with a gun that sounds like a small helicopter. Sometimes it’s me balancing on my wobble board, lights dimmed, downtempo techno in the background, my apartment smelling like palo santo and ambition.

    The point is, self-care isn’t about perfection, it’s about permission. Permission to rest. Permission to do nothing. Permission to light the candle, eat the crepe, and enjoy the hell out of it.

    Because it turns out, taking care of yourself doesn’t mean pushing harder. Sometimes it just means finally letting yourself stop pushing at all without a single thought.