I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to consuming self-help content. Reading and devouring article after article, blog post after blog post. But, I end up only implementing a small fraction of it; I’m a strong example of what not to be on the pursuit for self-improvement.
But a few weeks ago, I stumbled across a technique that caught my eye.
Cold Shower Therapy
With such an invigorating name and enthralling concept, I was instantly hooked. Previously, I had tried cold showers, but soon stopped; I vaguely understood that cold showers had some benefits, and that many people recommended them, but they just didn’t seem to be something for me.
After all, who wants to get up at six in the morning being ready for discomfort?
But I found one article which stood out in its dramatic anecdotal promises of what this technique would do to me.
“CST shows you how weak an emotion fear really is.”
“Slowly, you realize [the fear is] just a big monster in your closet. Big, scary, and all in your imagination. You’re bigger than it. You’re better than it. And you’ve already beaten it. It has nothing on you. Cold Shower Therapy makes you invincible.”
“…And absolutely nothing can stop you.”
Obviously I recognized the dramatic tones of these statements. Most people would recommend not believing in these outlandish promises of invincibility and unwavering strength.
But despite common sense, I’m a sucker for promises of extraordinary benefits. The more I read, the less I see a cold shower, and the more I start seeing a magical technique that would transform my life into productive, hard-working, temptation-overcoming, fear-killing bliss.
So unlike most self-help techniques, I didn’t forget about this; instead, when I went to sleep, I laid my phone next to my sink so that I could be reminded to do it the next morning.
The next morning came.
Unfortunately, this mystical bliss I associated with the shower had fully dispersed as I comprehended the realities of an Ice Cold Shower.
When I override habit and instinct, turning the shower-knob only quarter-fold, my body’s internal panic bells ring. The water gushing out of the shower-head does not follow its typical pattern of warming up slowly. The slightly warm breeze that usually accompanies the shower’s hot water is no more — instead, its replaced with an unrelenting chilly air.
My stomach curls. My breathing quickens
“Come on, It’s time to do this” I tell myself. But my brain is half convinced, my body is planted firmly in place, and my spirit to provide any extra energy is far, far, away.
I fiddle with some music to hype me up.
Come on, Cody. It’s literally me versus myself. Just like the article says, it’ll be bad, but I’ll be fine.
But even with the intense music and the supporting internal monologue, I still stand there. Time trickles by, thoughts swarm my head, and yet the water is still unrelentingly cold.
My saving grace is guilt.
Shoot, I’m wasting too much water.
And just like anybody who has swam, I approached the cold shower like a cold swimming pool; as something completely familiar, tiptoeing into a new environment is both painful and ineffective.
There’s only one option.
Facing the roaring sea of discomfort, I plunged.
And oh how absolutely terrible it was.
Prickly thorns racing down my skin as the icy water dissipated across my body, plastering its crisp texture from my head to toes. With my first entry into the gusher, my body rocked itself awake, alert of the newfound crisis it had entered. Within a few seconds, my body began shivering uncontrollably. Within the first minute, my nerves had numbed, having absorbed the persistent cold from the water.
The five minute timer that I set on my phone ticked slower and slower. Sitting right next to my shower, I kept checking how much time was left before I could escape this torment.
But the battle wasn’t fully against myself anymore. With a timer in sight, I had established that I had to stay in the shower. The battle was now a battle of endurance — a fight against time as I worked with myself to tamper my body’s internal discontent.
The instructions were straightforward — take a shower and wait.
This waiting would encompass a variety of forms: shouting some silly rap freestyles to energize myself in the middle of the shower, or trying to relax my body muscles to stop tensing in the middle of the shower.
Of course, they didn’t help much. My body still shivered more than I thought was humanely possible, and the gush of polar ice and frost never yielded.
But after dashing out of the shower, the smile could not leave my face.
I just did that. I just sat through that. Wow.
And because I did it once, I could do it again.
The streak began from day one, and never ceased. For the first week, every single day was about the same — although it would be a bit easier to get in, the shower itself was still unrelenting, the cold itself still unbearable.
…well, that’s the thing. My body said it was unbearable, but by the first few days, I knew full well my body was doing its best to lie to me.
It was more than bearable. And after five days, the magic began happening.
By this point, I was getting used to the cold in the middle of the shower. I’m wasn’t shivering anymore at some points. It was still uncomfortable, but I understood that it was bearably uncomfortable.
In fact, I reach a point in my shower where I am even slightly comfortable with it. But, my body is quick to remind my brain that it hinges on the caveat that I don’t shift around or turn, exposing new parts of my body to the cold water; that would be very uncomfortable, and of course I don’t want to do that, it shrieks.
The point of Cold Shower Therapy now makes sense to me; I didn’t really have to think about the answer to this.
I plunged right in the direction my body didn’t want me to go, re-experiencing that twinge of discomfort in fresh new places.
After a minute, my body settles down, and tells me the exact same thing.
And just like the last time, I turn in the exact way I didn’t want to.
With each time I chase the discomfort of the cold shower, the associated discomfort lessens, and I become stronger.
The cold showers aren’t about me suffering discomfort anymore; they are about me chasing discomfort.
After many weeks of doing this, this mentality has extended past showers — on one occasion at school, I wanted to compliment someone, but felt as if I didn’t know them well enough (so this would very obviously be weird! and scary! and bad! and that I shouldn’t do!).
So I did it anyways. And it went great.
Weeks after starting cold showers, as I wake from my bed, I still feel the twinge of discomfort knowing that I will enter the shower. Turning the shower quarter-fold doesn’t make me feel any better.
But whenever I plunge into the cold stream, I relax; it’s never as bad as it seems.
The benefits from doing this technique are likely reaching further than I can comprehend, likely helping in ways that I don’t consciously note.
But as long as it keeps helping me plunge into discomfort, I’ll keep taking cold showers.
