Legend has it that in Osaek, South Korea, nymphs used to bathe in the hot springs that flowed from a deep underground aquifer, carbonated and rich in iron and sulfur. They’d return to the heavens renewed by the minerals, their skin soft as satin. In a round soaking pool with that exact mineral composition, I close my eyes and let the lukewarm water lift my arms like wings by my sides.

I’m not in South Korea but instead WorldSprings, the largest mineral springs resort in the U.S. The 10-acre spa opened in The Colony, near Frisco, in summer 2024, with another property to open near Zion National Park in Utah this summer. The resort features 46 hot springs and cold plunges formulated with the mineral compositions of world-famous waters. These include Iceland’s Blue Lagoon, whose lithium, potassium, and silica are said to help with hypertension, joint issues, and calming the nervous system; and the Dead Sea, which has the highest concentration of salt and minerals of any natural body of water. There is also an array of soaking pools inspired by mineral springs in Guatemala, Italy, Japan, Mexico, South Korea, Australia, and Bali, all of which are acclaimed for their wellness benefits.

The hot springs range in size but typically fit 15 people, and there are two larger waters that fit big groups. (Rates start at $39.) They’re all gracefully positioned throughout the WorldSprings property, with signs along the covered walkways that list water temperatures, minerals, and wellness benefits and guide guests toward different regions. Small groups of people in swimsuits read aloud the soaking pool placards: “anti-inflammatory,” “muscle and joint pain,” “nerve damage,” “skin health.” Their voices lift with cautious yearning, and I sense the hope we feel with any wellness promise—that this might finally be the cure to make us feel better, feel new, feel like ourselves again. That hope is something I understand.

On an ordinary Wednesday in late December 2023, I woke up with a small blind spot in the center of my vision, as if a cursor had deleted one letter in the middle of a word. By Friday, it had shifted to the left and expanded, an opaque haze devouring my peripheral vision. I spent five days in the neurology unit of a hospital as doctors tried, through imaging and blood and spinal fluid, to solve the mystery of my sudden partial blindness. It could have been multiple sclerosis or a brain tumor, a stroke or a hidden, ticking time bomb of an aneurysm. I told my husband where to find my passwords and letters I’d written to our 5- and 3-year-olds throughout their lives. If I died, I thought, at least they’d have my words when their memories of me faded.

After weeks of false diagnoses and multiple complicated referrals, we finally learned it was toxoplasma chorioretinitis, a parasitic infection on my optic nerve that would require five difficult and often frightening months of treatment. Even when it was technically “over”—the infection healed, though my lost peripheral vision never recovered—I didn’t feel safe in my own body. My flesh and bones and organs felt like a hastily reconstructed house, one strong wind away from collapsing again.

A year later, I find myself driving hundreds of miles on a journey to Texas’ mineral springs, whose waters—some natural and centuries old, others human-made and modern—are considered healing. I can’t help but feel skeptical, yet I still hope the waters might soothe the pieces of me that are still rattling around and ease them back together.

“Taking the Waters”

Water is life-giving, lifesaving, sacred. Ancient Egyptians considered the Nile River a gift from the gods. In the Bible, the prophet Elisha instructs the Syrian commander Naaman to bathe in the Jordan River seven times to cure his leprosy. In Hindu mythology, the Ganges River is the holiest river, and Hindus bathe in it for purification.

Hippocrates, known as the father of medicine, prescribed hot thermal baths for curing skin diseases and relieving muscular and joint pain 2,500 years ago. In Greek mythology, Hercules bathed in the springs of Thermopylae to restore his strength. Therapeutic baths were in vogue in ancient Greece and Rome, and then throughout Europe and the Asia-Pacific—the latter regions now accounting for 95% of commercialized revenue from mineral springs establishments.

In the 16th and 17th centuries, the phrase “taking the waters” referred to drinking and bathing in thermal mineral waters for therapeutic purposes. In the U.S.—where Native Americans had used mineral springs for bathing, cooking, and healing for thousands of years—whole “spa towns” developed in the 19th century. The leisure class congregated in Saratoga Springs, New York, or Palm Springs, California, to escape the bourgeois grind of daily life and seek relief from their afflictions.

Texas was no exception. In the 1868 Texas Almanac, naturalist Gideon Lincecum praised the “medicated waters of Texas,” stating that nearly every county in the state had mineral springs. Some were opulent resorts, with lavish entertainment programs, while others offered only simple bathhouses or access to a natural spring or well.

In the U.S., the lure of hot springs weakened in the late 1920s, as the country entered the Great Depression and pharmacological developments offered alternate treatment options. Now, though, a new crop of mineral spas is reviving the ancient tradition. Here in Texas, people in need of relaxation—or in hope of healing—are rediscovering the draw of taking the waters.

“Most healing waters don’t have the marketing budget to get in front of more people, so it’s been more of a marginalized treatment modality,” says Dr. Sara Szal Gottfried, a physician specializing in precision, functional, and integrative medicine and a New York Times bestselling author. “Yet I have prescribed it to my patients for 30 years, and I continue to hear back about the benefits they experience, from reduction of pain to improved athletic recovery and stress reduction.”

My own hot springs experience is limited. On a trip to Big Bend National Park in 2016, my husband and I hiked to Boquillas Hot Springs, now known as Big Bend Hot Springs, a crumbling stone-walled outdoor tub at the lip of the Rio Grande. We were alone, and the brown river water lapped high enough to blend with the 105-degree mineral water. The tub is the remains of the Langford Bathhouse that operated in the early 1900s. The summer heat broiled the desert, but still, the soak was restorative for our sore muscles. I remember watching the long buffelgrass sway on the opposite bank of the river, so close I could have thrown a stone from the U.S. and have it land in Mexico.

While I soak in a 101-degree pool inspired by hot springs in Hokkaido, Japan, I consider that my three-hour pass isn’t enough to enjoy all 46 pools on the WorldSprings property. I need a better strategy. I turn to the “Mineral Method,” designed specifically for WorldSprings. The program includes four circuits of around 30 minutes that use various pools for contrast soaks, relaxation, and hot and cold therapies. The focus is on recovery, sleep, stress, and detox.

I realize I’m already more or less on the detox circuit, which aids with inflammation. This feels appropriate—even meant to be. The day I woke up with the central blind spot, I was diagnosed with optic neuritis, often the first symptom of multiple sclerosis. MS is a chronic autoimmune disease characterized by inflammation in the central nervous system, causing a litany of debilitating symptoms. I immediately ordered Omega-3 supplements and an anti-inflammatory cookbook, hoping there was a way to stop or reverse the damage. Though I didn’t end up having MS, the word “inflammation” still triggers fear in my body, like things are swelling or distorting inside me. This circuit, then, sounds perfect.

I begin with sitting in a sauna for 10-15 minutes, then cooling off in an outdoor shower and hydrating, then heading to one of the 102-degree Osaek pools for 15 minutes. Finally, a cold plunge. I hesitate. Submerging in a body of water below 60 degrees sounds miserable, but I’m committed to the process. From my hot pool, I watch as a tall woman in a baseball cap emerges, shivering, from a nearby cold plunge.

“How was it?” I ask.

“Cold!” she laughs. “But you can do it. Try it for 30 seconds. You might surprise yourself.”

I gasp as I lower myself slowly, inch by inch, into the 55-degree pool. My legs go numb, then intensely tingly. The cold feels like it’s seeping into my organs. I imagine it surrounding any inflammation like water to fire, coaxing flames down to embers. Shivering, I watch the red hand on the nearby timer track its way around until it hits one full minute, then I scramble out of the pool. I feel simultaneously proud, embarrassed, and invigorated.

“How was it?” asks a woman in an adjacent hot pool.

I grin. “If I can do it, you can do it.”

crazy craze

In 1877, a judge named James Alvis Lynch moved his wife, their 10 kids, and 50 head of livestock from Denison almost 150 miles southwest to escape malaria. The picturesque valley was drier than Denison but 4 miles from the Brazos River, their only water source. In 1880, Lynch hired a well driller, but the water that emerged tasted strange—sightly salty, with a mild bitter bite. Lynch and his wife had rheumatism, an umbrella term covering dozens of conditions that cause pain as well as inflammation in the body’s joints and connective tissues. After some time drinking the funny-tasting well water—cautiously, then enthusiastically—they started to feel better.

Word spread quickly about the “healing water,” and over the course of a year, some 3,000 people camped out at the Lynch property to fill their glasses from the well for 5 cents each. In 1881, the city was officially established as Mineral Wells, with Lynch its first self-appointed mayor. Within three years, the water from the well became known as “Crazy Water” for the way it seemed to help a “crazy lady” who drank from it until she was discharged from the local sanitarium, according to the historical timeline on the company’s website.

The Famous Mineral Water Company is a quaint one-story red brick structure next to Crazy Water Bottling Works in Mineral Wells—a town of 15,000 about 90 minutes from Dallas. A 30-foot concrete sculpture of an old-fashioned glass bottle reading Dismuke’s Pronto-Lax, Famous Mineral Water Concentrated marks the spot.

Ed Dismuke is credited with bottling and commercializing Crazy Water. He arrived in Mineral Wells with his wife around 1900, following a doctor’s diagnosis of a life-threatening stomach disease. After only one month of drinking Crazy Water, he was so convinced of its healing properties that he founded the Famous Mineral Water Company. Dismuke lived until he was 97 years old.

So—what’s in the water? Water from the original Crazy Well includes calcium, magnesium, potassium, bicarbonate, sulfate, zinc, silica, and lithium. It has a pH level of 7.7—the only naturally alkaline mineral water sourced in Texas. Today’s Crazy Water bottles are numbered one through four, sourced at wells ranging from 120 feet to 360 feet.

“Our No. 1 is our trace minerals,” says Enrique Saucedo, our tour guide. “It’s a reverse osmosis that we do to the No. 2. Basically, it takes out most of the minerals from No. 2 and just leaves a trace.”

My small tour group—there are two other women—takes samples from the historic water bar. I savor each one like I’m tasting wine, swirling the liquid in my mouth. No. 1 tastes indistinguishable from regular water, while No. 4 has a distinct, bitter mineral flavor. I’ve never given much consideration to the mineral composition of my drinking water, but I wonder suddenly if I’ve missed a fundamental piece of the health puzzle. Mineral water is easier to ingest, after all, than it is to soak in on a regular basis. This is the double-edged sword of searching for wellness: It never feels like enough.

Down the street, the Crazy Water Bath House & Spa offers mineral baths and treatments using organic products blended with Crazy Water. The owners, Scott and Carol Elder, bought Famous Mineral Water and Crazy Water when they moved to Carol’s hometown of Mineral Wells in 1999. They raised their family in the house before converting it to the bathhouse and spa in 2014.

“We continued to have customers and visitors inquire about mineral baths and asked us to put baths in,” Carol says. “We gave them a try to see if they still had a place in modern times—and they do.”

Massage therapist Ashley Lockett leads me to a private treatment room with a sink and built-in tub. I’ve signed up for a 20-minute soak in a microbubble mineral bath, sourced from Well No. 3, the 360-foot Famous Deep Well, for its cleansing, exfoliating, and moisturizing properties. (Rates start at $45.) The alkaline water contains calcium, magnesium, potassium, lithium, sodium bicarbonate, and other trace minerals that can reduce inflammation, aid in digestion, and improve bone health. The microbubbles are said to sustain warmth and enhance the “sauna effect”—opening pores and supporting detoxification. They hum like a Jacuzzi and tickle the nape of my neck. I leave the water warm, not hot, as ambient music plays from a hidden speaker. It feels not unlike taking a bath at home, and when my time is up, it seems quick. Fortunately, I’ve also booked a facial and reflexology session.

This is my first experience with reflexology, a complementary therapy targeting pressure points that are supposed to correspond with specific organs or body systems. I tell Lockett about my recent eye problems, and she finds the corresponding reflexology points on the cushions of my second and third toes on each foot. I close my eyes and imagine a path between those pressure points and my optic nerve, which I picture as an embattled highway with a section in the middle burned away. Nerves don’t regenerate. There is no known treatment that will help me regain the vision I lost. But it occurs to me I am experiencing care, and it doesn’t need to be tied to an outcome. Simply allowing it feels therapeutic.

super soaker

In 1892, around the time Mineral Wells was booming as a resort town, the Southwestern Lunatic Asylum in San Antonio drilled a well that spurted 180,000 gallons per day. Unfortunately, the water was hot and sulfuric and wasn’t usable for the institution. Instead, the hospital leased the well for $5 a year, according to a survey report by the Center for Archaeological Research at the University of Texas at San Antonio. In 1900, local brewer Otto Koehler, of Pearl Brewery fame, purchased the property and built Hot Wells Hotel. It featured 80 rooms, a bathhouse, and three sulfur swimming pools, making it one of the most sought-after healing retreats in the U.S.

The site caught on fire multiple times and permanently closed in 1977. More than 20 years later, local developer James Lifshutz purchased the ruins and surrounding property, hoping to reopen it to the public. In 2012, Lifshutz, who owns the Blue Star Arts Complex, San Antonio’s longest-running contemporary arts space, approached artist and longtime FL!GHT Gallery owner Justin Parr with an idea. Would Parr be interested in living on-site to take care of the property and work with the newly established Hot Wells Conservancy to preserve the ruins?

Parr came on board as creative director, and in 2019, the Hot Wells of Bexar County historical park opened to the public. Four years later, Lifshutz drilled an 1,800-foot well below the aquifer, and the next phase of his vision—Camp Hot Wells—officially opened in January 2023.

“It was really important to me and to James to tie back in with the old bathhouse,” Parr says, “and I wanted to tie in as much of our community as possible.”

When I arrive, I order a glass of wine at the bar—built with wooden beams reclaimed from the original bathhouse—and head toward the back of the property. The lush, leafy courtyard is covered with patio furniture and lounge chairs surrounding a soothing fountain made from Parr’s own blown glass and concretions found along the banks of the San Antonio River.

Inside one of the soaking suites, two clawfoot tubs await, already full of hot, sulfuric well water. (Rates start at $75.) The temperature can be adjusted with the taps—left for hot springs, right for cool water from the city.

The suite is private and romantic, with a door and a cold shower for after the soak. But it’s open air on two sides, one of which has curtains to draw against the sun. There’s greenery all around—little red blossoms, wide striated banana leaves—a natural privacy screen between the suite and the river. The fresh smell of citrus is cut through with the occasional and very slight scent of sulfur.

Recent research published in the journal Evidence-Based Complementary and Alternative Medicine has shown that in addition to helping with skin, respiratory, and musculoskeletal disorders, sulfuric mineral water can help with pulmonary hypertension, arterial hypertension, atherosclerosis, ischemia-reperfusion injury, heart failure, peptic ulcers, and acute and chronic inflammatory diseases.

Perhaps in defiance of where I was less than a year ago, I’ve started training for a half-marathon. My ankles are swollen and hamstrings tight from that morning’s run, but when I emerge from my soak, I feel looser and more at ease than I did when I arrived. For the next half hour, I wander around the ruins, thinking of the thousands of people who ventured to springs like these in search of something they were missing—health, peace, companionship. I imagine their ghosts sitting in the pools, steam floating up toward the cloudless Texas sky.

comfortably numb

Back at WorldSprings, I finish my time with the “stress” circuit. At 103 degrees, the hot spring representing Fuentes Georginas, Guatemala, is comprised of bicarbonate, calcium, and magnesium, which are said to help with bone health, hypertension, and the restoration of the nervous system. I soak for 15 minutes. Then I attempt my second cold plunge.

This pool is 58 degrees. At a minute and a half, my body is really, truly numb, a loss of sensation that feels so much like warmth I suddenly understand why people suffering from hypothermia sometimes strip off their clothes. My normally racing mind slows, unbidden, to meditative calm as the timer’s hand winds peacefully round and round. One minute, two minutes, three, four. At five minutes—the maximum recommended time for cold plunges—I emerge. My skin is blotched red. I feel euphoric, superhuman.

Still following the stress circuit, I finish in Grutas Tolantongo, Mexico, and lower myself into the 103-degree water. It takes a full 20 seconds for my body to come back to life. The contrast of heat and cold makes me think about extremes, how a Tuesday’s normalcy can disappear beneath Wednesday’s chaos, and how it’s no wonder that sometimes our bodies snap between that push and pull. But here, momentarily, I don’t feel taut, breakable. I feel pliant, like I can withstand.