It started innocently enough: a scented candle here, a meditation app there. What was once the gentle reminder to “put on your own oxygen mask first” has ballooned into a multibillion-dollar industry selling everything from $80 yoga mats to $20 green juices. Self-care—once a radical act of resistance for women and marginalized communities—has been reframed by capitalism into a marketplace of products, apps, and subscriptions. Welcome to wellness capitalism, where self-care is less about balance and more about brand loyalty.
The commodification of wellness relies on a subtle bait-and-switch. Instead of offering freedom from stress, consumer wellness culture often creates new pressures: the pressure to have the right skincare regimen, the perfect morning routine, or the latest superfood. The irony is that stress relief has itself become stressful, a checklist of activities to optimize rather than experiences to savor. When “taking care of yourself” becomes another task in the productivity machine, wellness stops being a remedy and starts being a revenue stream.
This shift isn’t accidental—it’s structural. Capitalism has a way of absorbing critique, turning rebellion into product lines. The feminist origins of self-care, for example, emphasized reclaiming time, rest, and autonomy in a system that undervalued women’s labor. But wellness capitalism flipped the script, offering facials and fitness classes as “empowerment” while leaving the exhausting structures of overwork and inequality untouched. In other words, the bath bomb doesn’t dismantle the patriarchy, but it does smell like lavender.
At the heart of wellness capitalism is a seductive promise: that health and happiness can be purchased. Instagram is littered with aestheticized versions of this fantasy—minimalist pantries stocked with supplements, influencers drinking mushroom coffee on spotless countertops, bodies toned by boutique studios. These images sell not just products but aspirational lifestyles. And like all aspirational advertising, they reinforce class divides. A $25 spin class or a week-long juice cleanse is less about wellness than about signaling that one belongs to a certain tier of society.
What makes this model particularly effective is its alignment with neoliberal values of individual responsibility. Instead of demanding systemic change—say, more affordable healthcare or mandated workplace rest—wellness capitalism tells us that our problems can be solved with better shopping habits. Feeling burned out? Don’t push for labor protections; buy a mindfulness subscription. Struggling with stress? Forget about shorter workweeks; order an adaptogen powder. The weight of wellness is placed squarely on the individual, while institutions reap the rewards of inaction.
Of course, not all wellness practices are inherently compromised. Movement, meditation, rest, and mindful eating can be profoundly healing when divorced from consumerist imperatives. The issue arises when these practices are packaged as mandatory purchases, their efficacy tethered to price tags. A walk in the park may be free, but the wellness industry convinces us it doesn’t “count” unless we’re wearing Lululemon leggings and tracking our steps on a $300 smartwatch. Self-care becomes not what restores you, but what sells you.
Critics have pointed out that this commodification is both exclusionary and self-defeating. Wellness marketed through elite products is inaccessible to those most in need of rest, care, and health resources. Moreover, when wellness becomes a commodity, its benefits often get diluted. Studies have shown that much of the wellness industry’s offerings—like detox teas and crystal healing—have little scientific backing. Yet they thrive in the market because they offer something that evidence-based healthcare often doesn’t: narrative, ritual, and community.
The irony is that wellness capitalism thrives because it fills gaps left by other broken systems. In countries like the United States, where healthcare is expensive and workplace protections are thin, people turn to consumer wellness because the alternatives are bleak. Companies even co-opt wellness culture by offering employees perks like meditation apps instead of higher wages or reasonable hours. The “wellness solution” becomes a distraction from the structural reform actually required to make people’s lives healthier and more sustainable.
So where does that leave us? Perhaps the task is to reclaim wellness from capitalism’s grip, to separate practices of care from products of consumption. True self-care might look less like buying and more like saying no: no to overwork, no to guilt, no to the endless pressure to optimize. It could mean rest that doesn’t demand productivity, movement that isn’t monetized, nourishment that isn’t packaged with a logo. In this light, the real revolution in wellness may not be in spending but in resisting the idea that well-being is something you can buy at all.