On Sunday evenings along North Avenue Beach in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, an unusual scene unfolds as hundreds of people gather to do one thing: scream into Lake Michigan.
The Chicago Scream Club, which launched last year, has tapped into something many feel they desperately need. Attendance has swelled to around 300 people per session during the warmer months, and the concept is spreading to other major cities across the country.
Emanuel Hernandez and Elena Soboleva started the club almost by accident. Hernandez, 41, had relocated to Chicago to be with Soboleva, leaving behind work as an actor and crossfit coach. The couple was struggling to adjust to their new life together when they decided to try something unconventional.
"One day we were walking by the lake, and I said: 'Do you want to just go scream into the lake?' And she said: 'You know, yes, but, like, what if people were around?'" Hernandez recalled. "And I go: 'I'll just ask them if they want to join us.'"
That spontaneous invitation to nearby strangers became the blueprint for what would grow into a weekly gathering. Those first participants enthusiastically accepted, and Hernandez and Soboleva recognized the potential. They created a simple poster inviting people to join them the following week. By the sixth session, more than 300 were showing up.
The concept has since expanded beyond Chicago. Scream Club events now operate in Austin, Phoenix, and Washington DC. An unaffiliated online platform also exists where people can participate remotely, screaming together across the internet.
Participants arrive for varied reasons. Some seek relief from accumulated stress and anxiety. Others celebrate milestones, like the bride who came with her girlfriends two weeks ago to mark her wedding. Soboleva, 36, a branding consultant who moved to the United States from Russia in 2011, has observed the emotional impact firsthand.
"We've seen people of all ages, people of all nationalities, all different walks of life coming over. There are people who cry, there are people who break down, you know it's just all this pent-up stuff that they've been holding on to for so long," Soboleva said.
The session follows a structured format. Attendees receive biodegradable paper and write down what they want to release or their intention for the evening. They toss the paper into the water and then scream. Hernandez, who works as a breathwork practitioner, men's coach, and fitness coach, guides people through the experience.
"The biggest tip I would just tell people is just: don't be afraid. It's: just give in and let go," Hernandez said. He recommends starting with quieter screams before building to full volume.
No special equipment or clothing is required. Soboleva emphasizes comfort as the only real prerequisite. What matters most, according to Hernandez, is simply showing up, both for oneself and as a form of support for others.
The phenomenon has gained traction online, with videos of participants lined up along the water going viral this week. Hernandez attributes much of the appeal to the communal aspect. When done alone, screaming might feel embarrassing or pointless, but collective permission transforms it into something liberating.
"I think a lot of people think screaming is silly by themselves. So then, when they have permission from other people, screaming with them, I think it just gives them confidence to be able to do it," Hernandez said.
Author James Rodriguez: "What started as one couple's therapy session has tapped into a genuine hunger people have for uninhibited emotional release in shared space."
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