Before there was Michael Pollan and his “intentional eating” MasterClass, before there was “intermittent fasting” and the Wim Hof Method, there was Franz Xaver Mayr, the early-Twentieth-century Austrian physician. His revolutionary Mayr Method was grounded in the idea that the key to health and sweetness starts within the gut. His cult-like following led to the opening of his own clinic, and, eventually, to Lanserhof, a wellness and longevity retreat at whose fourth outpost I presently find myself. In some way by my very own selecting.
Arriving to the distant German island of Sylt, considered by some to be the Teutonic version of the Hamptons, if the Hamptons had fewer beach clubs and more colonics, takes some effort. Which is, in fact, the purpose. Guests must take a four-hour train ride across the Hindenburg causeway from Hamburg to reach on the town of List, where, among the many waves and heather, Lanserhof Sylt seems to levitate above the dunes. The whisper-quiet, thatch-roofed structure (the most important of its kind in Europe) designed by architect Christoph Ingenhoven offers no check-in desk, no custom scent, no chipper guide to assuage your fears of eating only 750 calories per day. This, too, is the purpose. At Lanserhof, escaping the pressures of the true world, tuning your senses to your body and your environment, can also be a part of the treatment.
I arrived from Latest York depleted — existentially drained in a way that no spa day or vacation could possibly resolve. Time had no meaning, I used to be exhausted, unfocused, unable to sleep. Relentless deadlines, continental moves, the news cycle… it was enough to throw me right into a midlife spiral that, I made a decision, only per week away, alone, could heal. So, no, I hadn’t booked myself into Lanserhof to lose those few winter kilos (as one gentleman guest revealed) or to maintain a chronic illness in check (as a sufferer of “leaky gut syndrome” told me). I used to be here to sleep without meds and to enlist in Lanserhof’s Longevity Program, one that may sustain my body on this mortal coil for so long as possible, in peak(ish) fitness. In other words, I used to be here for what Lanserhof guarantees at its core: a scientifically rigorous, medically monitored reset.
The clinic’s approach, the Lanserhof Cure, is rooted in what practitioners call “Medicine 3.0” — an evolution of preventive medicine that sees aging itself as a treatable condition. That translates to personalized diagnostics, one-on-one consultations and every day interventions calibrated to your individual genes, cells and metabolism. It also signifies that a weeklong stay begins with a series of tests (blood panels, body composition scans, a fragility rating assessment) and meetings with medical directors Jan Strizke and Christina Haeggberg, who walked me through my data with clinical candor. Seems, my vitamin D was low. My calcium, borderline. My posture? Protective. My hips and knees and shoulder were subtly rotating to shield an overworked psoas muscle — a compensation I’d never have known about if not for the wizarding osteopath who, in a single session, released my lower back and relieved a gradual pain I’d endured for twenty years.
If the diagnostics and physical therapies were hardcore, the protocols were equally so. I received an infusion of something yellow (Vitamin D?) during two CellGym sessions, designed to mimic altitude training and increase my mitochondrial health. I braved five stints in a cryo chamber chilled to -110°C, my breath slowing because the technician danced together with me outside the glass door to three-minute classics. (“Time Warp” seems to know no language barrier, and definitely speeds along the limitless 180 seconds, as its title suggests.) My massage therapist insisted I used to be too tight for a standard massage. “You wish abyanga,” she said. “Something deeper.” No kidding.
Deeper was a theme. At Lanserhof Sylt, the body is treated as a system of interdependent parts, not a series of symptoms to administer. You’ve got to get to the cellular level to manifest change. Nutrition was no exception. I met with the clinic’s quietly formidable dietitian, who analyzed not only what I ingest, but how. Her verdict: I wasn’t eating enough, and after I did, it was inconsistent. Worse, I wasn’t chewing properly — an offense here of just about spiritual magnitude. Dr. Mayr believed that every bite of food requires 30 to 40 chews, and, somewhat shamefully, Dr. Haeggberg needed to teach me the right way to chew properly. “Digestion begins within the mouth,” she insisted. Other beads of wisdom: No talking while eating. No water for thirty minutes on either side of a meal. Nothing but tea after supper, which should end by 7:30 pm. To make sure my colon was cleared by week’s end, on daily basis began with a swig of Epsom salts. Thank goodness I sat alone, not complaining to my table neighbors at lunch. As an alternative, each meal forced me to reflect on my decisions, on the wind, on my relationship to food and folks. Sparse but elegant, meals consisted of a dainty serving of coconut yogurt, a small plate of spelt pasta with vegan Bolognese, smoothies presented in bowls with tiny spoons. By day 4, my headache and my hunger faded. My appetite recalibrated. I started to taste food again — not only eat it. It’s amazing what 40 chews can do.
Not all the things was about food or fascia. I spent quality time with Heide, a therapist who gently suggested I schedule a every day “worry window” to contain my anxiety around falling asleep. (Good sleep hygiene is critical to longevity.) Her sleep retraining strategy required me to lie in bed and observe my breath for half-hour, then rise up and browse in one other room. It felt punitive at first, leaving my nerves threadbare and my body drained. But by Wednesday, my brain had learned the right way to self-soothe, the right way to give up. Months later, I remain Ambien-free.
Aside from running on treadmills strapped to some tubes or sitting in on lectures about gut health or group yoga sessions, there’s little to do at Lanserhof Sylt. No less than, that was what I entered this journey considering. Once my sleep and my hunger were regulated, I made myself available to nature. At some point was marked by a lengthy bike ride into town. One other included a 10-mile run on the boardwalk, resisting the urge to purchase a beer at a café. I read three books by the hearth. (No electronics allowed!) One night, I sipped kombucha and watched the sky blush pink and gold because the sun melted into the ocean through the glass wall, a scene so quietly introspective, it resided a world aside from offspring and deadlines. Conversations with my fellow guests — within the pool, on a morning walk, by that fireplace — were deeply personal and earnest. It was easy to forget that almost all of us had arrived here feeling broken, hoping “The Lanserhof Cure” would cure us all.
On my final morning, confident in my newfound “wellth,” I layered my coat over my swimsuit, stripped down, and marched into the North Sea. The sting of the salty 2°C water was quick. My extremities went numb, my core felt hot. For a full minute I fought the urge to run. Or to cry. After which, without fanfare, the pain passed. I emerged euphoric, unreasonably pleased with my silly, self-imposed achievement. I can do hard things! Even sleep without meds. Even chew a bite of spelt bread 40 times. Possibly I may even live in health endlessly.
8-night Lanserhof Classic Plus from €4,046, not including accommodation. Rooms from €649 per night; Lanserhof
Before there was Michael Pollan and his “intentional eating” MasterClass, before there was “intermittent fasting” and the Wim Hof Method, there was Franz Xaver Mayr, the early-Twentieth-century Austrian physician. His revolutionary Mayr Method was grounded in the idea that the key to health and sweetness starts within the gut. His cult-like following led to the opening of his own clinic, and, eventually, to Lanserhof, a wellness and longevity retreat at whose fourth outpost I presently find myself. In some way by my very own selecting.
Arriving to the distant German island of Sylt, considered by some to be the Teutonic version of the Hamptons, if the Hamptons had fewer beach clubs and more colonics, takes some effort. Which is, in fact, the purpose. Guests must take a four-hour train ride across the Hindenburg causeway from Hamburg to reach on the town of List, where, among the many waves and heather, Lanserhof Sylt seems to levitate above the dunes. The whisper-quiet, thatch-roofed structure (the most important of its kind in Europe) designed by architect Christoph Ingenhoven offers no check-in desk, no custom scent, no chipper guide to assuage your fears of eating only 750 calories per day. This, too, is the purpose. At Lanserhof, escaping the pressures of the true world, tuning your senses to your body and your environment, can also be a part of the treatment.
I arrived from Latest York depleted — existentially drained in a way that no spa day or vacation could possibly resolve. Time had no meaning, I used to be exhausted, unfocused, unable to sleep. Relentless deadlines, continental moves, the news cycle… it was enough to throw me right into a midlife spiral that, I made a decision, only per week away, alone, could heal. So, no, I hadn’t booked myself into Lanserhof to lose those few winter kilos (as one gentleman guest revealed) or to maintain a chronic illness in check (as a sufferer of “leaky gut syndrome” told me). I used to be here to sleep without meds and to enlist in Lanserhof’s Longevity Program, one that may sustain my body on this mortal coil for so long as possible, in peak(ish) fitness. In other words, I used to be here for what Lanserhof guarantees at its core: a scientifically rigorous, medically monitored reset.
The clinic’s approach, the Lanserhof Cure, is rooted in what practitioners call “Medicine 3.0” — an evolution of preventive medicine that sees aging itself as a treatable condition. That translates to personalized diagnostics, one-on-one consultations and every day interventions calibrated to your individual genes, cells and metabolism. It also signifies that a weeklong stay begins with a series of tests (blood panels, body composition scans, a fragility rating assessment) and meetings with medical directors Jan Strizke and Christina Haeggberg, who walked me through my data with clinical candor. Seems, my vitamin D was low. My calcium, borderline. My posture? Protective. My hips and knees and shoulder were subtly rotating to shield an overworked psoas muscle — a compensation I’d never have known about if not for the wizarding osteopath who, in a single session, released my lower back and relieved a gradual pain I’d endured for twenty years.
If the diagnostics and physical therapies were hardcore, the protocols were equally so. I received an infusion of something yellow (Vitamin D?) during two CellGym sessions, designed to mimic altitude training and increase my mitochondrial health. I braved five stints in a cryo chamber chilled to -110°C, my breath slowing because the technician danced together with me outside the glass door to three-minute classics. (“Time Warp” seems to know no language barrier, and definitely speeds along the limitless 180 seconds, as its title suggests.) My massage therapist insisted I used to be too tight for a standard massage. “You wish abyanga,” she said. “Something deeper.” No kidding.
Deeper was a theme. At Lanserhof Sylt, the body is treated as a system of interdependent parts, not a series of symptoms to administer. You’ve got to get to the cellular level to manifest change. Nutrition was no exception. I met with the clinic’s quietly formidable dietitian, who analyzed not only what I ingest, but how. Her verdict: I wasn’t eating enough, and after I did, it was inconsistent. Worse, I wasn’t chewing properly — an offense here of just about spiritual magnitude. Dr. Mayr believed that every bite of food requires 30 to 40 chews, and, somewhat shamefully, Dr. Haeggberg needed to teach me the right way to chew properly. “Digestion begins within the mouth,” she insisted. Other beads of wisdom: No talking while eating. No water for thirty minutes on either side of a meal. Nothing but tea after supper, which should end by 7:30 pm. To make sure my colon was cleared by week’s end, on daily basis began with a swig of Epsom salts. Thank goodness I sat alone, not complaining to my table neighbors at lunch. As an alternative, each meal forced me to reflect on my decisions, on the wind, on my relationship to food and folks. Sparse but elegant, meals consisted of a dainty serving of coconut yogurt, a small plate of spelt pasta with vegan Bolognese, smoothies presented in bowls with tiny spoons. By day 4, my headache and my hunger faded. My appetite recalibrated. I started to taste food again — not only eat it. It’s amazing what 40 chews can do.
Not all the things was about food or fascia. I spent quality time with Heide, a therapist who gently suggested I schedule a every day “worry window” to contain my anxiety around falling asleep. (Good sleep hygiene is critical to longevity.) Her sleep retraining strategy required me to lie in bed and observe my breath for half-hour, then rise up and browse in one other room. It felt punitive at first, leaving my nerves threadbare and my body drained. But by Wednesday, my brain had learned the right way to self-soothe, the right way to give up. Months later, I remain Ambien-free.
Aside from running on treadmills strapped to some tubes or sitting in on lectures about gut health or group yoga sessions, there’s little to do at Lanserhof Sylt. No less than, that was what I entered this journey considering. Once my sleep and my hunger were regulated, I made myself available to nature. At some point was marked by a lengthy bike ride into town. One other included a 10-mile run on the boardwalk, resisting the urge to purchase a beer at a café. I read three books by the hearth. (No electronics allowed!) One night, I sipped kombucha and watched the sky blush pink and gold because the sun melted into the ocean through the glass wall, a scene so quietly introspective, it resided a world aside from offspring and deadlines. Conversations with my fellow guests — within the pool, on a morning walk, by that fireplace — were deeply personal and earnest. It was easy to forget that almost all of us had arrived here feeling broken, hoping “The Lanserhof Cure” would cure us all.
On my final morning, confident in my newfound “wellth,” I layered my coat over my swimsuit, stripped down, and marched into the North Sea. The sting of the salty 2°C water was quick. My extremities went numb, my core felt hot. For a full minute I fought the urge to run. Or to cry. After which, without fanfare, the pain passed. I emerged euphoric, unreasonably pleased with my silly, self-imposed achievement. I can do hard things! Even sleep without meds. Even chew a bite of spelt bread 40 times. Possibly I may even live in health endlessly.
8-night Lanserhof Classic Plus from €4,046, not including accommodation. Rooms from €649 per night; Lanserhof
