Railing Against The Soft Lies of Late-Stage Wellness

Somewhere along the way, the wellness movement was quietly co-opted. What began as a spirited reclamation of health—radical, grassroots, biophilic—has now calcified into an aesthetic industry of soft lies: a pastel-tinted world of chlorophyll drops and $300 lymphatic drainage facials whispering, this is healing. And maybe, if you don’t look too closely, it almost is.

But the deeper truth?

Many of us are less connected—with ourselves, our inner knowing, with each other—despite the adaptogens, the spirulina, the affirmations printed on glass water bottles.

This is the soft lie of late-stage wellness: that the appearance of care is the same as care.

That comfort is the same as transformation. That a self curated within the confines of a brand can somehow be whole. 

What’s missing is the real move.

The moment of spiritual contact that changes everything—not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s true.

This became heartbreakingly clear in my departure from RA MA Institute in the aftermath of my teacher, Guru Jagat’s, death.

RA MA was an exquisite temple to me—exalted in my heart and mind. I had helped build the institute from the ground up, laying one of the “first bricks” in the Venice location and teaching in the first days of opening in 2013. I poured myself into making RA MA whole—in person, online, behind the scenes, inside the spirit of it.

And I absolutely, infinitely, loyaly, and outrageously LOVED Guru Jagat with all my heart. She was my teacher, friend, mentor, creative collaborator. Our relationship was vital, inspired, often wild. Our bond shaped my soul—and I know I wasn’t alone in feeling that way about her. 

So when she passed in 2021, the loss was stunning. My heart was shattered. In the first days after her passing, I felt like I was walking through two dimensions at once—part of me was in service, holding space for our students, showing up with steadiness. And another part of me was completely collapsed. I sobbed in the shower. I felt disoriented, even as I kept teaching.

The grief was not just personal—it was spiritual, structural, ancestral. She was gone, and somehow the future we had imagined was gone with her. 

And yet, I also felt more clarity and power than ever before.

I had studied under Guru Jagat for 13 years—since the age of 22—my entire adult career at that point. I knew the ins and outs of our shared creative and spiritual thrust. I was ready to continue our work. I had phoenix wings—rainbow ones—and I was ready to fly.

But as the months unfolded, one truth became unmistakable: I was meant to continue the work—but not at RA MA.

Given how deeply I had been woven into that system—nearly a decade and a half of presence, creative direction, and teaching—I never thought I would leave. In fact, I thought I wasn’t supposed to leave. When you hear stories of great teacher-student legacies, of lineage holders who stay on forever, that’s what I expected of myself. 

It was frightening—disorienting—to realize that my path forward might lead me away.

I was spiritually shaken, heartbroken, conflicted. I was fiercely loyal to the RA MA team, the community, the mission, the energy we had built together. The thought of stepping away wasn’t just “leaving the band” - it felt like full on betrayal. Like I was abandoning something sacred we had all poured ourselves into.

How could I do that—and still live with myself?

But when I clarified the messages of my intuition, my heart, and even my guts, I knew: the only way to move the needle in the way we had envisioned—the only way to truly flex those rainbow phoenix wings—was to resign. With heartache but unmistakable clarity. 

And that is what a real spiritual move looks like. Not ease. Not legacy. But truth. Grit. Soul.

Late-stage wellness preaches “sacred,” but rarely means it. It means products that symbolize sacred. A caftan. A $68 palo santo bundle with a custom font and a brand story. Another perfectly crafted plant-based face balm.

It isn’t evil, but it is sedative. This kind of wellness allows us to feel like we’re doing the work without ever disturbing the ground we’re standing on. Real spirit requires fierce honesty—and maybe, everything falling apart.

That said, wellness doesn’t always need to be disruptive. I can think of many examples—from my own life, from the lives of great masters, and from the journeys of students—where the truest soul move was to stay. To not flee when things got sticky or uncomfortable. To soften deeper into presence and allow the transformation to unfold within the existing container.

It’s that softness that is key. A softening into beauty. Into devotion. Into what Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche called basic human goodness.

Courageous spirit and clarity don’t always look like thunder. They can look like grace. Sincerity. Earnest sweetness.

I suppose what late-stage wellness tells us—subtly, but consistently—is that it’s okay to shut down. But that’s not what anyone sincerely wants. We all want to turn on. To be our wholest, most essential, loving selves.

It’s not always easy to do that. Sometimes you have to crack a few eggs. And sometimes those eggs aren’t just situations or partnerships—they’re the shells around your own heart.

Vulnerability and beauty aren’t sipping turmeric lattes during your infrared sauna routine. They’re truer. Messier. And they require at least a little discomfort. But if we can risk that—something more exquisite, more gorgeous, can be revealed. Something called liberation.

And if you’re at least willing to try, even a little— you’re already free.