Water Is My Incubator

February/2026

“Swimming is the trifecta for me—exercise, meditation, and alone time. When I'm swimming laps, you can't call me or talk to me. It's me and the black stripe.”

— Brené Brown

“Fresh ideas appear as I focus on my sensations.”

— Me

May/2026

My husband Yves occasionally wakes in the middle of the night with an urgent announcement.

“I got it!”

Still half asleep, I listen as he explains the solution to whatever alligator he's been wrestling. Some stubborn problem untangles itself while he sleeps, and suddenly the way forward is obvious.

This happens to me too.

Not at night.

In the water.

I've been swimming all my life. As a child, I learned in Saskatchewan lakes during summer camp. With only a brief season between ice-out and snowfall, the water was invariably cold enough to make a person reconsider every life choice. Fortunately, my nervous system was still under construction.

What began as a childhood activity became a lifelong practice.

Since leaving home at eighteen, I've rarely lived anywhere without locating the nearest pool. Swimming has always been more than exercise. It is meditation, sanctuary, and appointment with me.

As a young mother and university student, I guarded that appointment fiercely. In Never Still: A Memoir, I wrote about leaving my apartment door open and asking the accountant across the hall to leave his open too. If my baby, Anika, woke up while I was swimming before class, he would hear her and come to the rescue.

Looking back, the arrangement sounds questionable.

At the time, it seemed perfectly reasonable.

I introduced Anika to water when she was three months old. I can still see her tiny face as I held her close, gently blew on her cheeks, and lowered us beneath the surface together. She accepted the unfamiliar world without hesitation.

For years we swam side by side. I was the whale; she was the clinging mermaid demanding, “Faster, Mama!”

Now she swims in her own lane and moves through the water at roughly twice my speed.

Time passes. Water remains.

The older I become, the more grateful I am for the peculiar mercy of being suspended in water. On land, my body occasionally reminds me of its limitations. In the pool, many of those complaints disappear. The water carries what gravity insists I carry myself.

My mind changes there too.

It is difficult to stay angry while swimming laps.

It is difficult to rehearse grievances.

It is difficult to believe the stories fear tells.

Stroke after stroke, those thoughts loosen their grip.

Once, during a particularly painful season, I cried for nearly an entire swim. I paused every few lengths to drain my goggles before continuing.

If you've never cried while swimming, I highly recommend it. And BTW, you can smile and laugh underwater.

Somewhere between the rhythm of breathing and the repetition of movement, something opens. The mind quiets. Space appears.

Then comes the gift.

A new idea.

A solution.

A perspective I could not access while sitting at my desk trying desperately to think.

The thought arrives fully formed, as though it has been patiently waiting beneath the surface for me to stop chasing it.

Water is my incubator.

Over the years, I've shared this love with others. When Sasha Takazawa Chau was two years old, we became regulars at the Eileen Dailly pool. Together we counted down the years until she was old enough for the waterslide.

On her sixth birthday, we climbed and descended that slide thirty-six times.

Today she is sixteen, a competitive swimmer, a swimming instructor, and a master of the butterfly stroke.

Watching young swimmers become confident in water has been one of the quiet privileges of my life.

Which brings me to a secret.

A very small secret, shared with a very small readership.

There is an outdoor pool that remains open all year long.

All year. The only one in Canada.

In winter, steam rises into the cold air. There is a covered heated deck, a cozy sauna, and water maintained at a glorious 27 to 30 degrees Celsius.

When snow falls, swimmers continue their laps beneath the grey Vancouver sky.

I hesitate to tell you because part of me wants to keep it to myself.

Every swimmer understands this feeling. When you discover a place that reliably returns you to yourself, you become protective of it.

So, if you happen to visit Kensington Park Outdoor Pool, I ask only one thing:

Please keep this to yourself.