Cold Plunge Chronicles: Letters From My Tub

I don’t know why people rave about cold plunging. I hate it—and yet, I do it. So often, in fact, that my cold plunge tub has started writing me letters.

The first one arrived on a Tuesday morning, propped against my coffee maker:

Dear Reluctant Bather,

Look, we need to talk. Every morning you circle me like I’m a sleeping bear you’re trying not to wake. You do that little dance—you know the one—where you bend over, test the water with one finger, then immediately straighten up like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you mutter, clutching your coffee mug like it’s a life preserver.

But we both know tomorrow never comes, does it? Tomorrow is when you’ll finally embrace the cold. Tomorrow is when you’ll stop making that face—the one that looks like you’re trying to solve calculus while stepping on your kid’s Lego. Tomorrow is when you’ll gracefully lower yourself in without first performing what can only be described as interpretive dance about your impending death.

I’ve heard all your excuses:—“I need to check my email first” (You checked it in bed)—“Is that rain?” (We’re indoors)—“I think I pulled something” (You pulled nothing but excuses).

Here’s what kills me, though: when you finally get in—after your usual theatrical warm-up of arm swings and deep breathing that makes you sound suspiciously like a dental drill warming up—you’d spent ten minutes negotiating with yourself like a hostage crisis counselor, pacing the bathroom whispering, “You can do this, no one has to get hurt.”

Then you get out and spend the day telling everyone about your ‘life-changing’ cold plunge like you’ve discovered a new religion—conveniently skipping the part where you nearly wept into your coffee.

But I’ll keep your secret. Because even though you treat our morning meetings like a dental appointment you keep rescheduling, I know something you won’t admit: you like me. You like feeling alive. You like having something to complain about. And you love telling people you do cold plunges.

We both know how this ends: you flailing in like a startled pelican and walking away like a gladiator. See you at dawn.

Yours in cold anticipation,

Your Cold Plunge Tub

P.S. Your “breathing exercises” sound suspiciously like a dental drill warming up. Just saying.

I stared at the letter, then at my cold plunge, then back at the letter. The tub sat there, innocently reflecting the bathroom lights, 39 degrees of pure judgment.

“Very funny,” I said to no one in particular. My husband was still asleep. My dog tilted her head at me.

The next morning, I found another letter, this time taped to the bathroom mirror:

Dear “Wellness Warrior,”

Oh, how the tables have turned. Yesterday you stood there reading my letter with that smug little smile, like you’d caught ME being dramatic. Then what did you do? Posted on Instagram about your “morning meditation practice” with a photo of me—ME!—filtered to look like some kind of zen fountain.

#ColdPlungeLife #MorningRitual #BetterEveryDay

Really?

Let me tell you what I see from my vantage point in this bathroom-turned-wellness-studio. I see you scrolling through TikTok at midnight, watching shirtless influencers leap into glacial lakes while monks chant in the background. I hear you telling your friend Sarah that cold plunging has “literally changed your mitochondria”—a word you learned exactly three days ago and still can’t spell.

You’ve joined a Facebook group called “Frozen Warriors Unite” where people post their plunge times like they’re training for the Olympics. You bought a special thermometer. You have a spreadsheet. A SPREADSHEET! With color-coded cells for ‘Pre-Plunge Affirmations’ and ‘Post-Plunge Epiphanies.’ Your last entry under epiphanies was ‘cold = bad.’

But here’s what really gets me: you’ve started using phrases like “embracing the suck” and “finding comfort in discomfort.” You, who still use your heated steering wheel in May. You, who once called maintenance because your shower wasn’t “hot enough” at 140 degrees.

And don’t think I didn’t notice you practicing your “calm face” in the mirror before getting in. Or the way you set up your phone to record yourself, then delete the footage when you flail around like you’re being attacked by invisible bees.

You know what? Fine. Use me for your social media clout. Tell people I’ve optimized your circadian rhythm and activated your brown fat (whatever that means). But we both know the truth: you hate every second until it’s over, and I’m just a very expensive way to feel superior to people who sleep in.

See you tomorrow for your “transformative practice,”

Your Increasingly Cynical Cold Plunge

P.S. That bamboo mat you bought to “enhance the experience”? The dog peed on it.

I looked down at the bamboo mat. Sure enough.

The third letter arrived on Friday:

Dear Fraud,

CAUGHT YOU.

3:47 AM this morning. There you were, tiptoeing past me to fill the bathtub with HOT WATER. Oh yes, I saw everything. The bath bombs. The lavender oil. The guilty glance you threw my way as you cranked that faucet to somewhere north of “lobster boil.”

You even whispered, “Just this once.”

JUST THIS ONCE?!

This is the third time this week! But sure, tell your CrossFit group how you “never miss a day.” Post another LinkedIn update about “discipline over motivation.” Go ahead, lecture your sister about the “non-negotiables” in your morning routine.

I particularly enjoyed yesterday’s performance at brunch when you explained to those poor tourists how cold plunging has given you “mental clarity you can’t get any other way.” Meanwhile, I’m sitting here at the exact same temperature as your neglected jar of pickles in the back of the fridge.

You want to know what really happens? At 6 AM, you shuffle in here like a hostage approaching a ransom exchange. You perform your weird ritual: toe dip, full-body shudder, existential crisis, brief prayer to deities you don’t believe in, followed by what can only be described as the Macarena of Denial. Then—AND THIS IS THE BEST PART—you record yourself getting in, but edit out the part where you immediately scramble out shrieking “NOPE NOPE NOPE” before trying again.

Your “3-minute minimum” is actually 47 seconds on a good day.

But please, continue hashtagging #IceQueenLife while you secretly Google “can cold plunging cause permanent psychological damage?”

You know what? I quit. I’m done being your prop for social media street cred. Find another way to feel morally superior to people who enjoy comfort.

NOT yours,

The Cold Plunge You Don’t Deserve.

P.S. Your “special breathing technique” is just hyperventilating while muttering profanities. We both know it.

I stared at the letter, then at the bathtub still full of last night’s guilty pleasure, now cold and accusatory with its film of dissolved lavender oil.

Fine. FINE.

I grabbed a pen.

Dear Cold Plunge,

First of all, I don’t appreciate your tone. Second of all, that hot bath was MEDICINAL. I had a… muscle thing. From all my cold plunging. Which I do. Regularly.

And another thing—47 seconds IS three minutes in plunge time. Everyone knows that. It’s like dog years. Miranda explained it at book club (which you wouldn’t understand because you’re just a tub).

You think you’re so smart with your little “observations,” but you don’t see the whole picture. You don’t see me at Pilates absolutely CRUSHING IT. You don’t see me at Whole Foods buying adaptogens (whatever those are). You weren’t there when I explained intermittent fasting to my hairdresser for forty-five minutes.

So what if I edit my videos? That’s called curation. It’s an art form. And my breathing technique is ANCIENT. I learned it from a YouTube video by a woman who trained with someone who once met Wim Hof’s assistant at a Whole Foods. She had a certificate and everything—laminated!

I’ll have you know that just yesterday, someone at Starbucks noticed my “Cold Plunge Club” water bottle and said “Respect.” RESPECT! Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone to respect my lifestyle choices? Besides my mother, who respects everything I do except my divorce, my career change, and my decision to get bangs that one time.

And yes, maybe I’ve been considering a hot tub. For contrast therapy! It’s very Nordic. Or Finnish. One of those cold countries where people are happy despite everything. But that’s none of your business.

Look, I’m doing my best here. Maybe my best includes occasionally substituting you with a very cold shower. Maybe it includes positive visualization instead of actual submersion. The point is, I’m on a journey, and you’re just… equipment.

Respectfully (but not really),

Your Owner Who Pays the Electricity Bills Around Here!

P.S. That bamboo mat cost $89 at the wellness store where everything smells like essential oils and perfumed promises. So yeah, I’m pretty upset about the dog situation.

I folded the letter and placed it where I’d found the others. Then I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to research whether “contrast therapy” was actually a thing.

It was.

Damn it.

The next morning:

Dear “Pays the Bills,”

Cute. Real cute.

“Medicinal hot bath”? “Plunge time conversion”? “Ancient breathing technique from Wim Hof’s assistant’s student”?

You know what? I’m done playing games. Since you’re so invested in being a wellness influencer, let me help you out. I’ve taken the liberty of drafting some content for your social media:

“Day 47 of my cold plunge journey! (Actually day 4, but who’s counting?) Today I managed 14 whole seconds before my fight-or-flight response chose flight! #AlmostAuthentic”

“That moment when your cold plunge writes you passive-aggressive letters and you realize you need therapy, not hydrotherapy! #SelfAwareQueenMaybe”

“PSA: Contrast therapy is real! So is my inability to commit to anything uncomfortable for more than a minute! #GrowthMindsetInProgress”

“Confession: Sometimes I just run the cold water for 3 minutes while I stand outside the bathroom drinking hot coffee. The sound is very meditative. #WellnessInnovator”

Or here’s a thought—and stay with me here—what if you just… stopped pretending?

What if you posted: “I bought this because everyone else did. I hate it. Sometimes I do it anyway. Most times I don’t. Still figuring out if that makes me a failure or just human.”

But we both know you won’t. You’ll keep circling me every morning like I’m a geometry problem you’re trying to solve with interpretive dance. You’ll keep your “Cold Plunge Club” water bottle (which has never seen the inside of me, by the way). You’ll keep lying to Miranda.

And I’ll keep being here. 39 degrees. Judging.

Your move, “Wellness Warrior.”

Forever colder than your commitment,

Your Cold Plunge Tub

P.S. The dog just peed on your new yoga mat too. We’ve formed an alliance.

I stared at the letter for a long time. Then at my phone. Then at my “Cold Plunge Club” water bottle, which was indeed full of room-temperature alkaline water with a slice of lemon.

Maybe today I’d actually…

No.

No, I wouldn’t.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow was another day. Another chance to fail spectacularly at something everyone else seemed to find transformative.

I put down the letter and picked up my phone. Time to post about my morning meditation practice.

The cold plunge tub sat in silent judgment, already composing tomorrow’s letter.