Some families pass down traditions like recipes, heirlooms, or stories told across generations. Mine passed down something different — a rule. A peculiar, unwavering, and rather cold rule.
My father was not what you’d call a sentimental man. Stoic, reserved, and bound by strict routine, he believed in discipline above comfort and structure above spontaneity. Growing up under his roof was like living inside a machine that ran precisely on schedule. No deviations, no questions.
But of all his rigid routines and non-negotiable beliefs, one stood out the most — his obsession with cold showers and a particular brand of soap. It wasn’t just a suggestion; it was a rule I had to follow from the time I was a pre-teen until I left for college.
Every single morning before school, I was expected to shower — not in warm or hot water like most kids my age — but in bone-chilling cold water. And I had to use only the soap he provided. Not the lavender-scented body wash my mom bought, not the oatmeal bar my skin preferred, but a strange, coarse, white bar that my father alone bought in bulk and stored in our linen closet.
At first, I thought it was just an old-fashioned parenting style. My dad would hand me the bar with a serious look and say, “Use this soap, and make sure the water’s cold. It builds strength.” That was it. No further explanation. As a child, you learn to stop questioning things you can’t change — especially when the grown-ups won’t give you straight answers.
As the years went on, the cold showers continued. So did the soap. Each time a bar would finish, a new one would appear the next day in the bathroom — no wrapper, no label, always the same shape, same faintly unfamiliar smell.
Eventually, I began to notice how unique this routine was. None of my friends were doing the same. They talked about long, steamy showers after school or scented bath bombs and shower gels they got for their birthdays. Me? I had to jump into freezing water before the sun was even up and scrub myself with a block of what felt like stone.
I remember trying to bring it up to my mom once during breakfast.
“Why do I have to take cold showers every day?” I asked, casually.
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked toward my father, who sat at the head of the table reading his paper. Then she smiled faintly and said, “It’s just his way. Don’t worry about it.”
I didn’t push further.
Still, it bothered me. The soap had a strange scent — not strong or unpleasant, just… different. Like herbs mixed with something artificial. Over time, I got used to it. But something about it always felt out of place, like it didn’t belong in a normal household.
By high school, I’d internalized the routine. Wake up. Cold shower. The soap. It became a part of life, like brushing your teeth or packing your backpack. Even when I didn’t feel particularly dirty, I was told to shower again. Three times a day, sometimes more, depending on my father’s mood.
It wasn’t until I was seventeen that I realized how unusual the whole thing really was.
One weekend, my then-boyfriend, Tyler, came over to help me study for finals. My parents were both home but mostly stayed out of our way. Tyler and I were going over flashcards in my room when he asked to use the bathroom.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s right down the hall.”
After a few minutes, he returned — looking confused.
“Hey, uh… is that soap in your bathroom supposed to smell like that?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It just smells… weird. Like chemicals or something. And it’s super heavy. Almost like a rock.”
I laughed nervously. “That’s just the soap my dad buys. He’s really strict about me using only that one.”
Tyler sat back, raising an eyebrow. “That’s kind of intense.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, brushing it off. “It’s just a family thing.”
But something about his reaction planted a seed in my mind. For the first time, I began to question everything. Why only that soap? Why so many cold showers? Why was it treated like a sacred ritual in our house?
The next day, when no one was home, I went to the bathroom and picked up the soap. I held it in my hands, really looked at it. It was oddly firm, unusually heavy, and there was that faint smell again — not like anything I’d ever found in stores.
I broke a piece off. Nothing special. It looked like soap on the inside. But still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about it was… wrong.
I decided to do something I’d never done before — take a warm shower. Just once. Just to see if it felt different.
And it did. It felt freeing. Calming. Like a part of me had been released from invisible chains.
When my dad came home later, he seemed to know immediately.
“You didn’t take a cold shower today,” he said.
I froze. “What makes you say that?”
He didn’t answer. He just stared at me for a long time before walking away.
From that day on, the mood in the house changed. Tension lingered in the air. My father was quieter, colder — ironically — and seemed to watch me more closely. I felt like I was under constant observation. My mom avoided me even more than usual. Something was happening, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
One night, I sat in bed, the soap bar on my desk. I stared at it, trying to make sense of it. Finally, I grabbed my laptop and started researching.
I typed in vague queries:
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“White soap bar unusual smell”
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“Homemade soap that feels like rock”
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“Why would a parent enforce cold showers?”
Nothing conclusive came up. Most results pointed to traditional beliefs about cold showers improving circulation, mental discipline, or skin health. But none of it explained the odd control my dad exerted over it — or the secrecy surrounding the soap.
I didn’t find answers that night, but something shifted in me. I decided I was done following rules that made no sense. If my dad wanted to believe in cold showers and mysterious soap, that was his choice — but it didn’t have to be mine.
When I went off to college later that year, I left the soap behind.
It’s been several years since then. I’ve asked my mom a few times if she ever knew why Dad was so obsessed with that routine. She always dodges the question.
He passed away two years ago, and with him went the only person who might’ve had the full story.
Sometimes I wonder if the whole thing was just a strict parent trying to instill discipline in an unconventional way. Maybe the soap was something natural and homemade that he believed in. Or maybe — and this thought still lingers — there was something more to it. Something he never wanted me to understand.
I’ve read about people who use strict routines to cope with trauma, to find control in a world that feels chaotic. Maybe that was him. Maybe the soap and the cold water were his rituals, and I just happened to get pulled into them.
To this day, I still can’t use that brand of soap — or take a cold shower — without thinking about my childhood. It’s strange how something so mundane can carry so much weight.
But I’ve made peace with it. That chapter of my life is behind me. It taught me a lot about trust, questioning what we’re told, and eventually — breaking free from routines that no longer serve us.
Not all traditions are meant to be passed on. Some are meant to be examined, understood, and left behind.
Reflection: What I’ve Learned
We all grow up with habits and beliefs that shape who we are. Some are beautiful and worth preserving. Others are puzzling, even harmful. It’s okay to question them. It’s okay to step back and say, “Why am I doing this?”
In my case, a bar of soap and a blast of cold water became symbols of a larger story — one about obedience, independence, and the courage to question what doesn’t feel right.
It’s not always easy. Breaking away from old rules can be scary. But it’s also necessary if we want to build lives that are truly our own.
If you’ve ever felt trapped by someone else’s expectations — even if they meant well — know that you’re not alone. The journey to understanding ourselves often begins with the courage to question the routines we never chose.