Jessica Traynor

I'm going to bring you to a place where we'd all like to be right now, the sea.

The train bends round the curve of Dublin Bay and all of a sudden, the sea.

The pool-beg chimneys writhe a little in the evening haze.

I'm on my way to take part in an outdoor breathwork session followed by a full moon swim.

The theme of the event is letting go.

I'm mourning the loss of a friend, let's call her Lydia, to suicide.

The grief is messy, it keeps spilling out into my busy days.

So, in a move that my husband describes as perverse, I have signed up for a sea swimming session.

The idea of getting into the Irish Sea at night fills me with a kind of horror.

This is proving the main attraction.

There is a conviction somewhere deep inside me that there is no progress without difficulty.

Of course, immersion in water is a kind of rite of passage, and the full moon feels significant too, the ending of one cycle, the beginning of another.

I get off the train and get lost in a car park.

I can see the park where the yoga is to take place, but I'm not sure how to get there.

The evening's hazy with the sun hanging big and burnished, a gilded peony in a mist.

I make my way up a bare hillock to where I can see a few women standing on unfurled yoga mats.

I'm alone, and all the other people here are with groups of friends.

I feel a little embarrassed, vulnerable, as we all begin to stretch.

Some women behind me are celebrating a 40th.

They pass round glasses of no secco.