The first time I got in a hyperbaric oxygen tank, things got off to a rocky start. After fashion month last March, I was feeling physically and mentally depleted. A wellness editor friend of mine had been talking about oxygen therapy, which was supposedly great for treating things like low energy and brain fog, as well as supporting longevity. Considering I’d drunk more white wine that month than a professional sommelier, nuked most of my existing brain cells with sleep deprivation, and shaved multiple years off my life from the stress of back-to-back flights, I thought it might be exactly what the (witch) doctor ordered. So I booked an appointment at a popular wellness practice on London’s Greek Street.
According to its marketers, hyperbaric oxygen therapy (HBOT) “boosts” the body’s natural healing process. For each treatment, the patient is sealed in a white cylindrical chamber. There’s a big glass window that you can look out of so you don’t feel like you’re literally being buried alive. Think of the pods in the Avatar movies, just without a hunky Sam Worthington inside. Once a person is secure, the air pressure is increased to above normal levels while pure oxygen is delivered to the body via a nasal cannula. The combination of high pressure and pure oxygen—which is far higher than the 21% found in everyday air—supposedly helps a greater amount of oxygen get absorbed. After entering the blood, this extra oxygen is transported to injured or infected tissues to aid repair and regeneration.
A real medical doctor might use HBOT to treat a chronic, non-healing wound like a diabetic foot ulcer, or a serious infection such as gas gangrene. Other medically approved uses include treating gas embolisms, carbon monoxide poisoning, decompression sickness, physical trauma (like a car crash), vascular issues and a sudden loss of vision and hearing—none of which, thankfully, have applied to me so far.
The view from inside a hyperbaric oxygen chamber.
Tish Weinstock multitasking in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber.
What I’m interested in is the non-medically approved conditions that HBOT can supposedly help, including low energy, mental fog, digestive issues, stress, inflammation, anxiety, and aging. While there are potential, although incredibly rare, side effects such as fatigue, headaches, oxygen toxicity, carbon dioxide retention, respiratory failure, and, ultimately, death, out of all the unhinged wellness practices I’ve flirted with, this feels the most legit. And I'm not the only one who thinks that. While it’s very popular among athletes and biohacking bros (erection expert and wellness fanatic Bryan Johnson has his own tank at home—jealous!), a lot of fashion people I know have been flocking to wellness clinics across London for treatments. I’ve also bumped into a very famous popstar, an actress and randomly my friend's mom in the waiting room of the one I go to. That said, at £100 a pop, it admittedly might not be for everyone.
For my first appointment, I arrived early in the hopes of starting my week off right. I was invited into a pristine white treatment room lined with four different horizontal tanks, all occupied by people either reading a book or tapping away on their laptops. It felt like a scene out of 2001: A Space Odyssey but with a bit of Severance thrown into the mix—a sci-fi WeWork of sorts. There was also a much larger vertical tank, which basically looked like a medical porta potty, with two padded seats and a TV inside, in case you want to go in with a friend. A kindly looking nurse asked me to remove my shoes—I was allowed to keep everything else on—and leave my water bottle on the table before I climbed into the tank to begin my one-hour session. After handing me a pillow and blanket, she hooked me up to the nasal cannula and pointed out the intercom system, which you can use to communicate with the outside world, as well as the emergency panic button. Lastly, she sealed me in.
That’s when I started to panic.
There’s nothing like being confined to a medical-grade coffin to unlock a latent psychological disorder. Hello, claustrophobia, I've been waiting for you! As the pressure inside increased, so did my anxiety. My brain decided to go through everything that could possibly go wrong: what if the entire thing burst into flames? What if the machine somehow got permanently locked and I was trapped inside forever? I rang the buzzer to get the nurse’s attention, and she reassured me over the intercom that everything would be absolutely fine.
Not ten minutes later, I was back on the buzzer, complaining that my ears were starting to pop—like that feeling you get on a plane during takeoff and landing. Again, I was told everything was absolutely fine; it was just my body reacting to a change in pressure. To make matters worse, I realized I was desperate to pee with 45 minutes left in the treatment. Because of the mounting pressure inside, it’s not like you can just suddenly hit pause for a bathroom break. If you exit the tank, then you have to start all over again. Plus, a sudden change in air pressure isn’t great for the old eardrums.
To take my mind off my bursting bladder, I decided to play a guided meditation on my phone, close my eyes, and think of England while taking deep breaths of pure oxygen. And that’s when things started to change. With each breath in, I began to feel calmer, so much so that I eventually drifted off. When the hour was up, the nurse opened the tank, and I climbed back out into civilization. After relieving myself in the loo, I checked in with how I was feeling and was surprised to discover an overall sense of freshness and focus.
Since then, I've been getting hyperbaric oxygen therapy pretty much every other week, always putting on a podcast or meditation to distract myself from how confined the space is. Sometimes, I even go in the two-man chamber with a friend, although that’s never quite as relaxing. I also, crucially, remember to pee beforehand. I think I’m starting to feel the positive effects. I always leave feeling sharper, calmer, and generally more alive. Whether it's the oxygen turbocharging my tissues or the fact that for an hour every week, I'm finally getting a much-needed rest, something seems to be working.
