When my son died suddenly in March 2022 one of the strongest feelings I experienced was overwhelming anxiety. My body would constantly flood with adrenaline, even though there was nothing to fight or flee from.
There was nothing I could do, but my body was relentlessly calling for an outlet for this pent up energy. I needed to channel the massive force of shock and trauma. Distract my heart from the wrenching pain and my brain from the repetitive thoughts and images.
I can’t remember my exact journey towards sea swimming that year. Much of it was a blur. I know I have always been viscerally connected to the water. My parents tell me as a child I was the first one into the sea on the cold, windy beaches of our family holidays. Whenever I see water, my body yearns to be in it.
What I do remember is that the ice cold waters of Scottish lochs and the sea gave me a brief but profound respite, placing me solely in the moment. This body, this water, this feeling. I remember writing at the time that it was like two pain magnets repelling each other and providing a sacred space of calm.
I had never swum through the winter and none of my friends had either. So I joined Salty Seabirds and did their sea swimming safety course, which taught me, among other things, to respect the power of the sea. I knew that this had to be part of my healing journey. Paralysed in life and struggling for meaning, the act of overcoming the fear of the cold and showing up to do it, gave me some self respect and structure.
It took me a long time to summon the courage to even think of starting a group. With the encouragement of Salty Seabirds, in November 2022 via a post on their Facebook group, Salty Grief Warriors swimming group for bereaved parents was born.
Winter was probably not the best time to launch a sea swimming group but gradually people began to message me. We met, not quite knowing what to expect. What we found was each other. Grief can be a lonely thing. Despite the love and support from friends and family, most of the real grieving in our society is done alone. In the group, I found other parents, varied in age, background and circumstances of bereavement, who instantly just ‘got it’. The relief was profound and literally life saving. I hadn’t really known how much I needed it.
As we hunched on winter beaches, I was able to express my deepest pain, to cry without apology or reserve, to be honest about the feelings I had which I thought were a sign of my own private madness. There was comfort in being deeply heard and realising that others were having similar thoughts and feelings. It brought me back into the world.
I learnt from the wisdom of those who were further along the path than me. I listened to the pain of bereaved parents who had never really spoken about their grief before. I felt valued in being there for others as we gradually trusted the group to witness our pain and not to judge or offer advice. I revelled in our wicked and irreverent sense of humour.
Anchoring all this was the power of the sea and the liberation of swimming. We dedicated every swim to our children, holding hands and saying their names before we plunged screaming and cursing into the water. We climbed out of the waves feeling proud of ourselves because we had achieved something positive and empowering. We knew our children would be proud of us. We felt strong.
One of the things I have learnt from hearing the hugely varied experiences of the group is to have the confidence to be authentic in my own grief. To grieve without shame or expectation, knowing that there are no ‘rules’ about what is ‘normal’. Keep their ashes or don’t. Include their name on a family card, or don’t. Have their pictures around, or don’t. We are grieving in our own unique ways but we share our suffering.
Francis Weller, in his book The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief talks about the fear we have of allowing ourselves to descend into grief because we think we will never be able to return. He suggests that having a ‘bottom’ helps us to feel safe. An activity such as writing, meditation, art, swimming gives us this bottom, A regular appointment that we show up for. Salty Grief Warriors is part of my anchoring. I know they are there, every month and in between.
Now there is somewhere I can put down my burden and sink into the support and understanding of the tribe. For a tribe is what we are. Warriors, not in braving the waters but in getting out of bed every day and not giving up. Courageous in showing up for ourselves, each other and our children. It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a village to mourn one. This is our village. Come and join us.
Anna Mills, Group member
My daughter died in the autumn 2020 after many years of Multiple Sclerosis. She was born within the sound of the waves and we walked there a lot in her last years, often reading “Sea Fever” by John Masefield. “I must go down to the sea again/ to the lonely sea and the sky...” This poem was written for her.
We walked on the pier
In icy winter winds
Now I walk alone
Painting by Anna of Kingston beach where the group sometimes meet
This piece resonated so strongly with me. After my son was killed aged 14 I felt an almost visceral need to be in open water, particularly cold water. I had always loved swimming in open water but only when on holiday. After my son was killed, I started dreaming of being in cool rivers and lakes and so I decided to follow what my body was telling me and sought out the cold - that momentary relief when that is all your body can think about rather than the pain you are having to endure every second. I have now swum through 3 winters and still value the peace it gives me from the grief I carry. I have not met knowingly any other cold water swimmers who swim for the reason I do but thought they must be out there somewhere. I would really appreciate being put in contact with the group. Thank you
What a poignant and brave piece of writing - evokes the power of nature , the sea and the companionship of others to help comfort and strengthen the heart!