By now, you've seen him. Gritted teeth, gasping breath, torso submerged in ice cubes. Nipples sharp enough to cut through irony. He’s crouched inside a tub—steel or stone or converted livestock trough—steeling himself for what’s become the most fashionable form of self-inflicted suffering in modern masculinity: the cold plunge.
He breathes in, he breathes out. Then he plunges in—willingly, theatrically, shirtlessly—into a bath of freezing water that promises not just vitality and vigour but a chance at transcendence. Or at the very least, clearer skin. This is the age of the cold plunge man: a figure both tragic and triumphant, doing battle not against his enemies, but against his own nervous system.
Like all cults worth joining, cold plunging operates on the paradox of pain-as-cure. Proponents say it boosts mood, calms stress, sharpens focus, reduces inflammation, and makes you a better man.
The evidence, at least in part, agrees: a 2025 meta-analysis spanning 11 studies and over 3,000 participants found that cold water exposure improves sleep quality, reduces stress and nudges overall quality of life gently upward. Which is, admittedly, more than you can say for most things peddled under the umbrella of “wellness”.
Karan Sawhney, a former professional footballer and co-founder of The Tribe, a wellness space in Mumbai, sees it as something far deeper. “It centres me. It’s an anchor,” he says. “There’s something ancient about it. It’s not a fad. This has been around long before Instagram reels and wellness podcasts. But now, people are finally paying attention.”
According to Sawhney, the ritual itself matters as much as the science. “I do it with music playing. I focus on my breath. Sometimes I visualise my day ahead while I’m in the tub. It’s meditative, but it’s also confrontational. You can’t scroll your way through it.”
That’s the key difference. Cold plunging is not passive wellness. It’s not a collagen shot or a lavender eye mask. It’s teeth-chattering, breath-snatching, nervous-system-jolting commitment therapy. It’s not about feeling better—not immediately. It’s about feeling something, acutely, painfully, and then… maybe you post about it.
The cold plunge trend hasn’t so much “emerged” as it has crystallised around a very particular demographic: high-functioning, podcast-listening, performance- maximising men who believe the body is best understood as a machine—and that suffering, when stylised, is the noblest form of self-care. “The moment I get in, it’s like flipping a switch,” says Lewis, a Toronto-based trainer and fitness influencer. “Your central nervous system goes into overdrive. But if you breathe through it, it’s the closest thing I’ve found to real control. Like, nothing else in your day is going to feel harder than that first 30 seconds. That’s power.”
To be fair, there is real science behind this freeze-dried fervour. Short-term cold exposure has been linked to surges in norepinephrine and dopamine—neurochemicals that govern everything from alertness to mood to memory. It can also help with muscle soreness, kickstart metabolism by activating brown fat, and potentially aid in cellular autophagy.
But not everything is chilled perfection. Studies have also shown that post-workout cold plunges can reduce strength and muscle gains by as much as 30 per cent, thanks to the blunt-force dampening of inflammation and blood flow. Appetite can spike dramatically post-plunge, potentially neutralising those sought-after metabolic gains. And let’s not ignore the very real risks: hypothermia, cardiac stress and passing out in front of your neighbours.
“There’s this misconception that if it hurts, it must be working,” says Lewis. “That’s not always true. You can overdo it. And if you’ve got heart issues or blood pressure concerns, this isn’t the flex you think it is. You need to be smart about it.”
So where does that leave the average man trying to navigate the post-burnout, post-pandemic terrain of modern wellness? Somewhere between sincere self-care and curated punishment. Cold plunges ask for something tangible: presence. You can’t fake your way through a freezing tub of water. You can’t filter the gasp. In a world that increasingly rewards performance, distraction and numbing, there’s something uncomfortably clarifying about being submerged in stillness and shock.
“Honestly,” says Sawhney, “it makes me happier. Even if I don’t have access to a plunge, I’ll dip my face in a bucket of ice water first thing in the morning. It wakes me up. It sounds intense, but it’s what keeps me level. Everything else—performance, recovery, even mood—it follows.”
Maybe that’s the point: not to endure pain for pain’s sake, but to find, in the shiver and the silence, a moment of meaning—before the noise of the day rushes back in.
