Dogsledding taught me how to endure the cold—but cryotherapy felt like a different beast. Here’s how my body reacted to the rising health trend.
(Photo: Anna Matviienko/Getty, Abigail Wise)
Published August 6, 2025 02:26PM
I went to CryoEffect, a self-described “Cold Spa” in the Chicago suburbs, in the middle of the weekday, when I was told it would be pretty empty. The only customer was a guy in the back who had just gotten out of a full-body cryotherapy treatment—basically, three minutes naked in a -200 degrees Fahrenheit freezer—and was reclining in compression boots that went all the way up his legs. He was coming to CryoEffect daily as part of a fitness project, because, as an airplane salesman, he’d made a bet with a client that he could lose 30 pounds in 30 days. If he won, his client would pay him $50,000.
“What if you lose the bet?” I said.
“He’s not going to lose the bet,” said Miriam, the Cold Spa’s owner. She had a great smile and curly hair, and her wrists were adorned with crystal bracelets, which she made herself and sold at a table by the door. Each crystal helped with different things, like creativity and self-love. But most customers just bought them based on which colors they liked best.
The guy beamed. He was confident about the bet. “In two and a half weeks, I’ve already lost 27 pounds.”
“You should donate the money to the owner of CryoEffect,” said Miriam.
Did he feel, I asked, like time in the freezer was helping his goal?
“For sure,” he said. “You come out, and it’s almost like you’re crafted. Like, you’re shaped.” He sort of pawed the air, like he was patting a Greek statue. “Everything is tighter. It’s amazing! And my sinuses are better, too.”
Well, who doesn’t want to be crafted like a statue? That sounded pretty good to me, especially since I’d come to try out full-body cryotherapy myself. My reasons were simpler: I’m a long-distance dogsledder, a lover of deep cold, and I’ve spent a lot of time winter camping in 30 or 40 below zero—so I was curious about how the Cryo experience would compare. Temperatures in the walk-in freezer got down to—apparently—-260 degrees Fahrenheit, but some users described the sensation as that of standing next to a fridge with an open door. These things are not the same. How cold would it really feel? And would it scratch that cold-weather itch, even in summer? I felt uniquely qualified to evaluate.
Plus, the freezer therapy came with a bunch of supposed benefits—some of them even backed by science, like improved mood and less muscle soreness after workouts. And dozens of cryotherapy services have popped up in the Chicago area alone. Proponents argue that the cold decreases inflammation—picture an ice pack on an injury, but for your whole body—and causes your blood to redirect to your core, so that when it comes back to your extremities, it’s carrying extra nutrients and oxygen.
Do whole-body cryo fans care about the FDA’s statements that “there is very little evidence about its safety or effectiveness”? Not particularly. Search #cryotherapy on any socials, and you’ll find countless posts about pain relief, athletic performance, and improved energy. I gotta say, I believe it: regardless of direct physical effects, the intensity of three minutes in a deep freezer would make for a hell of a placebo.
Another man walked into the spa—clearly a regular, because he wasted no time slipping behind a curtain and changing into the spa-issued bathrobe, socks, and slippers before stepping into the cryo chamber, which looked like a cross between an upright fridge and a coffin. Lights flashed; white steam poured over the top. He spent the entirety of his three-minute treatment chatting with Miriam about his daughter’s upcoming wedding, even when a deafening fire alarm went off, which Miriam shouted was a false alarm from the office next door. I covered my ears; he ignored it. He seemed to be a superhero of ignoring sensory input. When his time was up, he stepped out of the tank like it was nothing.
Now it was my turn.
The inside of the freezer-coffin was lined with some sort of black quilted poly that was coated in frost. I opened the door and stepped onto a carpeted platform, which rose up until my head poked out an opening at the top. I wore a bathrobe over my underwear, but now that I was fully enclosed, I took off the robe and handed it to Miriam; no one could see my body, but I felt very exposed. The air already felt frigid. How much colder would it get? I started to get nervous.
A screen at the top of the tank read -97 degrees Fahrenheit, with 2 minutes and 54 seconds left. Within two seconds, temps dropped another 20 degrees. It felt like someone was pressing solid ice cubes to every inch of my skin. I had the urge to crouch down and make a ball, wrapping my arms around my legs to preserve heat, but I was afraid to bend at all and brush the frosty lining of the tank.
With a strong hissing sound, mist started to pour out around me, rising up to my neck. The temp dropped to -165.7 degrees Fahrenheit, which did not feel at all like standing in the open door to a refrigerator. It felt like I was standing in an oddly windless tundra—naked. I suppose, if I hadn’t seen the thermometer, I would have estimated the temperature to be around -40 degrees Fahrenheit, which is still very chilly to be naked. I guess that’s what they call a dry cold.
“Your skin receptors are talking to your brain,” Miriam said calmly, outside the coffin, as if those words meant anything at all. “Your blood is rushing to your core to protect your vital organs. When you step out of your three minutes of torture, your blood will rush back where it belongs and fight inflammation along the way.” She started listing the conditions this would help: brain fog, stress, depression, anxiety, acne, rosacea, scarring… (Conversely, the FDA warns of asphyxiation, frostbite, eye injury, and burns.)
It was hard to focus on what she was saying, which was surely the point; she was well-practiced in distracting people from the pain of cold. Still, the sensation of cold won over. It felt like thick needles were stabbing slowly into my shins and arms.
“You’ll be amazed how well you sleep tonight,” said Miriam cheerfully.
With 53 seconds to go, I started laughing from the pain. Miriam recommended that I put my arms up above the tank. “That leaves the girls exposed,” she warned a few seconds too late. My forearms were covered with the biggest goosebumps I’d ever seen.
With ten seconds to go, she traded me the mittens for my room-temperature bathrobe, which felt unbelievably toasty, like it had been warming for hours in the hot sun.
Normally it takes me a long time to warm up after being in deep cold—a half-day inside, at least, for the bone-chill to go away. I can mush in the morning, sit by a fire all afternoon, and still want a hot bath to warm up fully for bed. But within seconds of stepping out of the freezer-coffin, I felt fine again, except that my legs were as numb to touch as if they’d been novocained. It was kind of fun to poke them. My clothes, when I put them on, felt balmy. I wanted to skip around. I stepped back onto the street and everything seemed brighter. Almost sparkling. I had survived!
Apart from a brief euphoria, I noticed no other effects of the treatment, though to be fair, most advocates of cryotherapy recommend a series of sessions in order to get the benefits. But it certainly gave me a feeling of accomplishment far beyond what I’d normally get from three relatively passive minutes of my day. Would I do it again? Sure—but I’m more likely to DIY it by stepping outside in pajamas on a winter morning before I drink a cup of coffee, or running out of a sauna and into a snowbank for fun. If I’m a believer in cryotherapy, it’s because I am, above all, a believer in the power of cold—to invigorate, to calm, and to cast the world in beauty that wouldn’t be quite as visible at other times. Sometimes winter really can cure what ails you—and if a freezer-coffin can help me glimpse that on a summer day, consider me sold.
Blair Braverman is a columnist and contributing editor for Outside, a long-distance dogsledder, and author, most recently, of Small Game and Dogs on the Trail.
She’s completed some of the toughest dogsled races in the world, including the Iditarod, the Kobuk 440, and the Canadian Challenge, and co-runs the dog team BraverMountain Mushing with her husband, Quince Mountain, in northern Wisconsin. They share the team’s many adventures on Patreon.
Blair’s a contributor to The New York Times, Vogue, Esquire, This American Life, and elsewhere. She recently hosted the BBC Radio 4 show Animal and is survival correspondent for the podcast You’re Wrong About. She’s spoken about resilience in the wilderness for companies including Microsoft and Google.
Her favorite pieces she’s written for Outside are about competing on the Discovery show Naked and Afraid, being a woman alone in the woods, learning to write, and mischievous sled dog Blowhole.
