It’s just after 6:30 on a Tuesday morning in the Flatiron District, and everyone’s already wet and dancing. Some 160 people are gathered at Othership, the sprawling new sauna-and-ice-plunge-slash-social-club, for a sober rave hosted by Daybreaker, the loneliness-curing start-up founded by Radha Agrawal. Expensive, members-only wellness spas are steadily taking over as the city’s new social clubs; that this is Daybreaker’s third “sauna rave” at Othership feels like a peak example of the trend. “I need friends, I need friends,” the emcee tells the crowd. “We all need friends, these are your people.”
These people, each of whom paid around 70 bucks to snag a ticket, are gathered around a glass pillar of flames, swaying under the soft red light of the cavernous spa floor. From the looks of it, most of them seem to be zillennials, that generational cross-section that’s perhaps a little less lonely than Gen Z and more alcohol-averse than elder millennials were at their age. In any case, they seem to be having real fun. That includes those who, like me, pregamed this event with a two-mile run to the Hudson and back, organized in tandem with the rave. Agrawal herself ran alongside me in an athleisure body suit. We talked about our dreams (mine, undecided; hers, to end the loneliness epidemic) and the importance of forging human connections in a time when many people are finding it easier to just talk to ChatGPT and AI boyfriends. “They don’t have breath,” Agrawal said of chatbots. At Daybreaker, breathwork is a key tool to accessing your “deepest self.” Breath, Agrawal told me, is the critical human-robot distinction.
In the sauna afterward, a man coached us through some of this soul-searching breathwork while dancing in front of us with a towel. He and the rest of the room reached their arms in and out with every inhale and exhale; I followed along like a self-conscious robot. While some saunagoers then headed to Othership’s infamously bracing ice baths, which range from 32 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit, I trekked over to the “no-holds-barred-sunrise” dance floor, an amphitheater-style space where, during regular business hours, Othership’s spagoers mingle post-shvitz.
“WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP,” the emcee tells the room. Weam Ismail has flown in from Cairo to DJ. As he gets going, I chat with a 38-year-old software developer who’s been attending Daybreaker events for a decade and her friend, a pharmacist who loves EDM and can “dance anywhere,” no substances required. At this particular moment I find it hard to get my legs moving without one. But this group, which is full of software and finance professionals, appears to have evolved past those crutches, happily slamming the mango habanero and watermelon-mint probiotic seltzers in a cooler outside the sauna room. “I cut out alcohol and caffeine,” a software engineer says as he rocks from side to side; he’s never been to Othership but happily achieved a brutal three-minute cold plunge. While we speak, a cohort of the most passionate ravers climb up on the soft leather benches behind the DJ where they dance with impressive endurance for the rest of the two-hour event. A 29-year-old private-equity guy tells me he first came to a Daybreaker event four years ago at the behest of a friend’s mom and is now a regular attendee. “It’s a weird vibe today,” he observes, a little overcrowded and oversold. He’s brought along a novice friend, a software engineer who didn’t realize this was a dance party. “When I heard sauna rave,” he says, “I thought we’d just be sitting in a sauna.”
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Apart from the ravers stationed behind the DJ, there’s a muted quality to the dancing — think gentle rocking back and forth — and people peel off to sit in the sauna. “People are more aware of their bodies without alcohol,” a Ph.D. studying “spiritual psychology” tells me. But the more time passes, the more uninhibited the room becomes. A man in an American-flag speedo jams out to Mary J. Blige’s “Just Fine.” Near the DJ, a man in floral swim trunks starts playing a trumpet. The man in front of me vibes to it hard, swinging his towel passionately in the air. A couple starts making out; I can’t walk on the floor without slipping. “It’s sweaty after a while,” says the EDM-loving pharmacist from earlier, who now looks a little tired. She points to the slick sheen on the pew in front of us. “That’s all sweat.”
I retreat to the sauna room — thankfully a place where people are just sitting around. I hang out with a couple from Bensonhurst. What inspired them to come all the way out here? “My wife does crazy shit,” the man says. “She’s on the crazy-shit sites.” We head to the cold-plunge room together. A muscular shirtless man in a captain’s hat guides us through three rounds in the bone-chilling water. Each one is more punishing than the last. “Exhale,” the captain commands. “You can swear.” The Bensonhurst man does. His wife takes the cold in stride and suggests I take a class at her bootcamp gym in Noho. The Bensonhurst man asks the captain: “Do you enjoy watching people suffering, is that why you do this?” “Yes,” the captain says. Did something happen to the captain as a kid, was his family bad to him? “Yes!” the captain says.
Cold and spent, I meander back to the the edge of the dance floor. “RISE AND SHINE, RISE AND SHINE,” the emcee commands the crowd. But the desire to sit pulls me stronger. I return to the sauna, where I take a seat beside a 30-something man relaxing solo. When I ask him if he’s had a good time, he admits that he’s trying to get into sober parties, but they’re hard for him — usually he prefers the boost from a psychoactive. But he’s lost a lot of sober friends, and more of his people are marching in that direction. What does he usually like to rave with? “MDMA,” he says. Soon enough it’s 9 a.m., and he’s off to work at the hedge fund.
