I kind of almost joined a quasi-yoga cult in my early twenties.
We sang in Sanskrit while we Chair-ed and Warrior-ed and Boat-ed. By chanting and spinning our arms and holding our hands in specific mudras we invoked the power of archangels, whose light would surround our cars and protect us from accidents, according to our teachers. We visualized prana shooting out of our heads, we reset our karma, and we huffed a variety of breathing patterns for energy, purity, and balance.
I liked the yoga and the singing and brushed off most of the lofty spiritual stuff. I liked belting it out with stretching it out so much that I contemplated becoming certified in this particular school of yoga. And so my fellow yogis and I took a trip to New York for a workshop with the school’s founder. The guru.
He sat on an elevated platform in an airy room packed with people, wearing a headset microphone, smiling and ebullient. He seemed lovely, really, and capable of giving world-class hugs, but as I watched the people around me rapt and doe-eyed, lapping up the guy’s archangel-summoning-chakra-cleansing-universal-consciousness-tapping dogma as though his mouth were the fountain of youth, I knew I couldn’t do it. It helped that the training cost about 250 percent more than other yoga certifications, and the school was somewhat sketchily a 501(c)(3) organization.
There are countless fitness and wellness gurus on Instagram, each spouting their own brand of self-empowerment-eat-clean-lift-heavy dogma. Their ripped abs are on display, or their bulging arms, or their killer butts. Maybe they’re executing a complex yoga pose. It’s tough, because these professionals post very useful stuff—no gym-workouts, quick circuits for people who don’t have much time to exercise, a funny meme here and there. But they also post powerful images and dramatic text linking strong, chiseled, and/or thin bodies with happiness, fulfillment, and a good life.
Like this woman, for example. Actually, you do look like the girl in the magazine.
Or hot Emily, who posts this provocative, professionally photographed photo of herself looking like she’s about to use her impeccably toned muscles to pounce on someone, paired with advice on how to deal with sadness. It’s the sexy image that makes this post disingenuous. I mean, if you’re writing about feeling sad, maybe you could post a picture related to feeling sad? Is she supposed to look sad in this photo?
Sophie writes, “I feel like the fitness industry can easily convince people they’re not good enough.” WELL SHIT SOPHIE GUESS WHAT YOUR PHOTO JUST DID?
And here’s Michael, whose swole somehow represents his recovery and put-together life.
Kudos to these fitness folks—they work hard to look the way they do. But they also make a living looking the way they do, and by selling their look to others. Who knows if they’re happy. Who knows if they’re tired. Who knows if they’re going to scream the next time they have to pass up pizza.
Fitness looks different on everyone, yet the industry is powered by a monotheistic, hyper-athletic image. It’s an image that seems to drive our entire culture forward, alongside the belief that happy, carefree lives are lived in pure and disciplined bodies.
We’re lucky to live in a time rife with resources on fitness and wellness, and with a bit of research and experimentation, most anyone can find a modality to suit them. As ever, there’s also plenty of diets, powders, and fitness programs trying to sell you on a better, more well-lived life.
Tune out the noise, tune in, and be your own guru. Your body, and your mind, will thank you for it.