Left uncool and distinctly unchiselled by hypothermia

Although I swore I never would, I finally gave in and tried the whole “cold plunge” thing. I got behind a trend that chiselled people swear by, and according to their Instagram, it has benefits greater than any other wellness discovery since we started roasting the listeriosis and salmonella right out of our chicken. 

In the interest of accuracy, and for full context, I didn’t exactly plunge. It was Friday afternoon, the electricity had been off all day – City Power “infrastructure work” the official term for ‘Welcome back to the 1800s’ – and our geysers weren’t connected to the solar system. So, strictly speaking, it was less “cold plunge” and more frantic hopping around a cold shower like a man trying to negotiate with a thunderstorm. 

But water is water, and cold is cold. And unpleasant is unpleasant. The only real difference between an ice bath and a freezing shower is that in the shower, you also have the added thrill of being upright when your soul leaves your body. 

Still, I went in with an open mind. I expected transformation and spiritual clarity. I expected my mitochondria to write me a thank-you note. I expected my dopamine to dance. 

Instead, I emerged with the following results: 

• I felt angry, not invigorated; 

• I didn’t sleep any better; 

• I couldn’t reduce my ADHD medication; 

• I didn’t burn fat – that’s the Mounjaro, thank you very much; and 

• I remain unchiselled. 

And here’s the problem with modern wellness culture: nothing is allowed to be “just fine”. Everything must be life-changing. Cold water can’t simply be cold water. It must be a portal to longevity. No longer can we be just be a person who had a cold shower. We need to be part of a movement, preferably one with branded towels and a founder who mouths “discipline equals freedom” sincerely and meaningfully. 

It’s all so convincing online. You see these serene people lowering themselves into tubs of ice, breathing like Buddhist monks, and smiling the smile of someone who has definitely never tried to do this in Johannesburg. 

Because I’m sorry, but in South Africa, we already have a national cold-plunge programme. It’s called “loadshedding”. It’s called “no hot water”. It’s called “the municipal water pressure dropped again”. The idea that we would voluntarily add more suffering to our lives feels … greedy. 

And yet, the trend has spread like it’s a new religion. In fact, I heard there’s even a cold-plunge facility next to Saunders’ Rock Beach in Cape Town, which I have to admire as both brilliant and completely absurd. The Atlantic Ocean isn’t just cold. The Atlantic Ocean is the definition of cold. It’s a vast, natural, G-d-given plunge that comes free with seagulls and an island to swim from. Building a cold plunge next to it is like opening a “fresh-air studio” on Table Mountain and no different to selling bottled water next to a waterfall. Except the waterfall doesn’t induce involuntary swearing. 

The truth is, cold plunging is the perfect symbol of our age. We have so much comfort that we now pay money to experience discomfort in a curated setting so that we can feel accomplished, and then return to comfort and tell ourselves that we’ve done “hard things”. 

But we South Africans don’t need help with hard things. Hard things find us. Hard things come with municipal and political logos and a polite SMS that says “planned maintenance”. 

Which is probably why my cold shower didn’t change my life. 

Still, I will say this, I did emerge with one unexpected benefit. Perspective. Because as I stood there, wet, furious, and shivering, I realised something profound: some people do cold plunges to build resilience. I did mine because City Power already built it for me. And that, friends, is the most South African wellness protocol of all.