The Water Remembers

The Water Remembers – Finding Myself in a Swedish Lake

You'd think that stepping into the water means leaving the world behind. But I've come to believe it's the moment you step closer to yourself. That's what happened to me, on a quiet summer day, standing at the edge of a lake nestled deep in the Swedish woods.

The water was cold — but not unkind. It didn't sting like springtime lakes back home or the sudden drop of the Adriatic. No. This water felt like it knew I was a guest. It studied me gently, as if asking: "Are you brave enough to slow down? To really listen?"

A lesson in silence At first, my body protested. My breath turned shallow, my muscles tense — instinct. But then… as the water wrapped fully around me, something inside gave way. It didn't just cool my skin — it quieted my mind. The noise — the shoulds, the plans, the am-I-enoughs — slowly dissolved.

And there I was. Just me. The water. And the silence.

I never thought water could have a taste — but this did. It wasn't just a temperature. It was a memory. As if every bird that had flown above it, every tree that had leaned over it, every laugh of every child who had swum in it still lingered softly beneath the surface. And for one moment, I belonged there too.

Most water rushes, drags, or swallows. This didn't. This water held me. It didn't pull me under — it pulled me home. Back to something quiet and honest in myself. When I stepped out, the air stung just a little — but something inside had settled. Something had opened. And I felt, somehow, like I had become more than I was when I first arrived.

Maybe that's why I came here — not just for the lakes, but for the quiet that only nature knows how to teach. And somewhere, in a lake in Sweden, I was reminded: home isn't always a house. Sometimes it's waiting just beneath the surface of cold, clear water.