Wellness Culture: Calling Bullshit

I distinctly remember what I felt like as a teenager, around the same period in which wellness culture and influencers declared their undying love for one another.

Dealing with the ever-changing nature of both my external and internal self against the backdrop of an increasingly complex world was a melodramatic yet far-from-unique experience. After all, teenage angst is universal across generations and geography alike.

While I never ate tapeworms or drank vinegar as so many of our female predecessors did, growing up in the modern age for me meant being privy to all sorts of sponsored products that promised wellness within.

Ironically, but rather unsurprisingly, these products were (and still are) marketed to young women by the thinnest-of-the-thin Instagram models, adorned with veneers, authentic Romanian hair extensions, and a plentiful dose of Facetune.

To be abundantly clear, I am not making a larger point about women’s body standards or sexuality — after all, criticizing women for doing things women like is oh-so-last-season — nor am I trying to mope over the fact that women more beautiful than myself exist (shocker, I know).

Instead, what perplexes me about the way our current culture markets wellness and beauty today is how they are not only inextricably linked, but are also an expensive symbol of status. A mere decade ago, tabloids were all about promoting anorexia and giving the insider scoop on how to Lose Weight Quick, citing the worrying “successes” of celebrities like Nicole Richie and Lindsay Lohan, fostering a culture of eating disorders and drug abuse.

Nowadays, we are far more responsible and self-aware. It’s all about “health”, or rather “wellness”, as it pertains to sleep, energy, fitness, nutrition, mindfulness, and most importantly: appearance. I feel it’s only appropriate to note two glaring truths at this point.

Firstly, I am not exempt from this culture. In fact, I have actively participated in it: BetterHelp, Charcoal Toothpaste, Gua Sha, Lemon Water, Headspace, Chlorophyll, Collagen, Celery Juice, Intermittent Fasting, and even reciting mantras in the mirror. You name it, I’ve tried it.

Some would even argue that I perpetuate such a culture, working as a yoga instructor for a Soulcycle-Esque fitness corporation that combines mindfulness with old-school Drake for a heated, kick-ass workout.

I promise you I’m aware of the irony, here, but I think it only reifies my larger point that the choke-hold Luxury Wellness has on the western white woman exempts few.

Whether it’s the $30+ yoga classes or the plethora of fake crystals available on Amazon, western wellness companies have made a fortune off of rebranding and repackaging sacred practices from all over the world with little regard to the essence, purpose, and at times sanctity of such practices.

While neither myself nor the length of this piece is equipped to dive into the intricacies of this crucial dilemma, the fact remains that gentrification is a core pillar of the wellness industry.

To put it simply, the business of wellness, as well as the roots of our obsession with it, ought to be reconsidered. On the business side, the wellness industry is worth over a trillion dollars, ranging from small businesses to corporate chains to the elite of the elite: Goop.

Founded by actress Gwenyth Paltrow, Goop is a wellness and lifestyle brand that boasts a vast range of products both online and in stores. With its own podcast, products, and Netflix show, Goop is revolutionizing the world: for only $3,490 USD you can buy a 24 karat toy to level up your sex life.

If that’s not quite your style, fear not: Goop also offers a budget-friendly 75 dollar candle titled “This Smells Like My Vagina”, or a $66 Jade Yoni Egg that if you, erm, insert, will help you tap into your power within.

I’d link to products to prove to you that they’re real, but I feel that may be counterproductive. Besides, a simple Google search is all that is needed to unleash the expensive and bizarre world of Goop-like wellness.

If you’re cringing uncomfortably, you’re far from alone. Not only do many of their products lack scientific backing, some resulting in hefty lawsuits, but they also come at a price that alienates everyone but the ultra-rich. Beyond their worrying prices and claims, the products also signal an assumption that wellness is homogeneous.

In order to be well, everyone needs to purchase and consume the way Paltrow does. The extrapolation of niche, over-priced forms of wellness overshadows simpler, more-accessible wellness practices.

But this isn’t about slandering Gwenyth Paltrow. I, for one, thought she was wonderful in The Talented Mr. Ripley. It is, instead, about what Paltrow and her brand represent. Kourtney Kardashian has taken a similar path with her own wellness brand Poosh (close one, Kourt), which boasts products akin to the quality and pricing of Paltrow’s.

Here’s the thing: women like Gwenyth and Kourtney are objectively hot, successful, wealthy women. This is perfectly fine, but in exploring the intersections of wealth, wellness, beauty, and social capital, it remains relevant.

They are the sort of women whom influencers and micro-influencers take the lead from. The wellness products that the ultra-wealthy sell are of the same essence as the ones sold by Youtubers and Instagram hotties: on one end you have sex toys with the same price as some university tuition, and on the other you have the gimmicky products 13-year-old girls acquire AfterPay debt to purchase.

While I’m quite certain there are some who swear by these products, it feels counterintuitive, if not deeply exploitative, to tie wellness into the realm of luxury beauty.

Once upon a time millions of young girls were begging their parents for a new Von Dutch trucker hat or splurging on fake tan. If they didn’t have the same purse as Amanda Bynes, the knockoff would do.

Today, it’s a little different. If you don’t have X wellness product it is somehow seen as a reflection of your larger morality, and if you get the knock-off, you’re one or all of the following: a) cheap and unethical, b) a try-hard, or c) prone to serious mental and physical side-effects thanks to cheap production and snazzy marketing ploys.

The messages told to girls and women were once objectively unhealthy (no one can tell me they thought the cotton ball diet was good for you), whereas now the entire conversation is about wellness, primarily from the outside in.

People from Gen Z to Gen X are now feeling inadequate for not having the means to become the newest form of Hot Girl: a poreless, hairless, in-bed-by-9, Erewhon-eating, MadHappy-wearing SoulCycle junkie.

So why are the two so inextricably linked? And what does it have to do with class and clout? Why do we so eagerly buy into products and practices with unsubstantiated claims? As author and journalist Pandora Sykes puts it in her new book How Do We Know We’re Doing It Right?, “Wellness presents itself as forward-thinking… and yet is based on one of the oldest principles of patriarchy: that women are dirty and that a woman’s virtue depends on being perfect inside as well as outside. Juice cleanses and other self-care rituals aim to scrub us filthy femmes pristine, bringing purity and benediction.”

The one word that rings true to me here is purity. While simpler and authentic forms of wellness are rather beneficial to most, it feels rather undeniable that the quest to purchase, own, and signal wellness to the outside world is one of social status.

We accept all things attached to wellness, gimmicks or not, as essential components to our larger hope to find the salvation that the wellness industry promises.

Whether it be an Amazon jade roller or a Goop egg, there seems to be a larger sense of self-optimization involved in the practice of modern wellness. After all, to fit into the Wellness 101 guide is an affirmation of self-worth.

A reaffirming practice that you are pretty enough, thin enough, and grounded enough to attract others while also instilling inadequacy in those less “well” than you. A dogma that equates a certain lifestyle with success and beauty.

The well-oiled machine of wellness seems to be the end goal. But people are not machines. Few of us are able to, let alone can afford to, live off of juice cleanses and chia seeds, and it is my personal belief that we should not have to.

As Sykes says, citing the work of Alex Blasdel, “We live in a society that fetishizes emptiness… the implicit notion seems to be that ridding ourselves of “bad” foods, unthoughtful thoughts and every last pellet of faeces can help us achieve not only health, but something approaching a state of purity… cleanliness is next to godliness.”

As such, when we think about and participate in wellness culture today introspection is important.

The implication that the “well” are good (and also beautiful, successful, etc) and the “unwell” are bad (lazy, unhygienic, and of less value) is a dangerous spectrum to exist on.

Turning wellness into a cultural symbol of morality and worthiness is intrinsically problematic, and if we are to truly engage in wellness, it ought to be less contingent on consumerism and beauty.

Wellness ought to embrace the heterogeneity of people and the decisions they choose or can choose to make, fostering accessibility instead of serving the ultra-elite.