Let’s rewind to six months ago. Deepest, darkest December. It’s bitterly cold and black outside. My alarm goes off, signalling 6am, and I creep out of the bedroom so I don’t wake my partner, then put on the clothes I’ve collected in the bathroom the night before.

I fumble my sleepy limbs into my swimming costume, then layers, layers, layers. Fleecy leggings and hoodie. Leopard-print wellies. A giant fake-fur coat. The house is silent until the radiators creak into life, and then I’m ironically too warm. I assemble the other possessions I need: flask of hot tea, hot water bottle, snacks, kit bag, candles, lantern, fairylights.

​Like it knows everyone normal is still asleep, the growl of my mate’s van pulling up outside is quieter than usual. The headlights cut through the curtains. It is the morning of the winter solstice, and we are going for a ritual sunrise swim in a countryside lake. The roads are deserted. We’re meeting the others there. My friend plays Bjork and we talk about how it feels like getting up to go to the airport. I say how winter solstice was always a tradition when my Dad was alive – staying up together through the longest night of the year until you’re sure the sun is returning.

​By the lakeside, we stand in the dark, shivering because we’ve shucked off most of our layers and now we’re just in our costumes and coats. We light the lanterns and take it in turns to read verses from a poem adapted from one of Starhawk’s rituals. In the shadows, there’s a woman waiting, alone in the dark. She tells us she’s waiting for a friend who had the same idea of a daybreak swim, but the friend’s running so late there’s no way she’ll be here by dawn. The woman can’t decide whether to go in on her own. We shuffle so there’s room for her in our circle. Then we make our way across the muddy bank into the lake. The cold, when it hits my skin, is blistering. But I am grateful for it all the same; grateful for the extreme sensation of it, for the way it freezes my constantly-whizzing brain to a halt, for the chance to connect to the elements as the sunrise starts slowly seeping into the sky. For death and rebirth, dark and light. Everything in-between.

​I am the first one out. The others are dark sleek seal-head silhouettes still as I make my way back to the warmth of the van. Muddy feet, a black bikini and a giant black fake-fur coat seems totally the right energy for the funeral of 2020. By the time the others are back, I am bundled back up in all my layers, clutching my hot water bottle. Everyone laughs hysterically through getting dressed and our makeshift breakfast; the adrenaline still fizzing through our veins along with the caffeine we’ve all necked to get out of bed and to the lake by dawn. We drive home through winding country lanes, blasting Prodigy from my phone and telling each other all our hopes for the next six months as the days get longer, lighter, brighter.

Six months pass. The same friend and I gather in her garden with some others. The sun is beating down on us. The music’s on. There are flowers everywhere. Blankets and cushions on the grass, a groaning table full of food, rainbow ribbons adorning every surface. We’ve all taken tests before attending, meaning we can finally, finally hug each other without fear. It is summer solstice and this time I am not shivering at all. I am warmed, right through, by love and companionship, by queer pride and queer family, by music and sunshine and affection and our continued, collective survival. Magic in its purest form.

Originally shared in my newsletter in June 2021