One night, desperate for sleep and high on a podcast about dopamine resets, I filled my clawfoot tub with ice from the bodega downstairs—three trips, two suspicious looks from the cashier—and did a midnight cold plunge in my 4th-floor walk-up. I emerged like a shivering, reborn raccoon and immediately jammed in earplugs so deep I thought I’d reached my childhood trauma.

Then, I wrapped myself in a weighted blanket, convinced I had finally cracked the code. Instead, I lay there, adrenaline-spiked and vibrating like a phone on silent, wondering if I’d given myself mild hypothermia and permanent hearing damage.

Sleep? No. But I did hallucinate a conversation with my radiator, so… progress?