The Cult of Wellness / My Body in Three Parts
Body as Stone
My body is not a temple, but I wish it was. I wish I was made of something stronger than flesh, like stone. Something that could be carved into and become even more beautiful. That I could be fashioned into Gothic Revival or Brutalism by someone who really knows what they’re doing. Created with firm hands that have studied the art of building the world. By tools made for cutting limestone like butter. Strong, imposing, and admired. Not one of those new American pop-up mega-churches. Not something made of plastic and plexiglass that doesn’t have enough respect to rot. This, at least, I have in common with the monuments of a time long before me. I will rot. I will erode. My body will cave in from years of sun, sweat, salt, and sin. Cracks will form in already flawed skin and I will shrink down to an even smaller stature. In this way, I suppose I am a temple. I am made from the natural world and by the end of my life, the toll that it takes will be visible. It already is. So, I will treat my body the way the world treats its temples.
I understand where the phrase comes from. Temples are a place of sanctity, holiness, respect, and community. They are the place where our reality comes the closest to brushing against the walls of others. If I was trying to sell nutrient supplements I suppose I would attempt to convince people that their body must be treated as sacred as well. But, they never tell us that our bodies, as they were built, might be the closest place to divinity on Earth. They say that we must continuously cleanse them in our preparation. Physically, spiritually, and psychologically. To even the most stubborn among us, this messaging can be effective. I was recently under the impression that if I healed my gut my anxiety would be cured. That there are all these bacteria hidden in my stomach lining that would unlock an unlimited supply of serotonin if only I would stop drinking coffee on an empty stomach and start eating yogurt. To my true and real devastation, I hate the texture of yogurt.
It’s easy to take a stand against wellness culture. It’s consumerism, and it doesn’t take that much forethought to critique this. More often than not it’s a cult disguised as a community in which we can take refuge against the evils of unclean eating. I’m not saying we shouldn’t care for our bodies. But care means so many things, and to me, it will always mean kindness. We should all drink less and eat more vegetables, but I can manage that without thinking that my body will be desecrated by the occasional beer.
As with all industries, there are levels to the cult of wellness. There are companies hawking products that do more harm than good. Influencers who feel no qualms about promoting disordered eating and harmful supplements. I witness their ads, videos, and the product that is their lifestyle every day. In turn, I become wary of my body as a temple and angry at its implications when the act of living my life is bombarded with the message that my body, in its natural state, will never be good enough. And more often than not this anger turns inward. This is how I come to hate my body for not being made of stone.
There are people genuinely concerned with nutrition and climate protection as it pertains to food. As well as people showing a helpful and healing way to treat eating as a form of kindness towards the body. It would be beautiful if this was the norm. These individuals are not who I condemn when I call wellness a cult. They do not use fear and hate to claim my allegiance. But others do. They’re glad I ache at the soft give of my flesh and hope that I waste my nights begging to wake up like rock. Immovable and unshakable.
Body as Earth
My body is not a forest, but I wish it was. I begin to imagine myself as the green apocalypse. After I have been ravaged by the spoils of wellness, the lush growth of new life creeps back in in the absence of humanity. Gone are my predilections for a certain type of beauty. In my dreams, I grow tall and sturdy as a tree trunk and I expand as far as I can; catching sunlight in my hands. All I come to care about are the leaves growing new and strong on my skeleton. Only my foundation remains. The truth of my body and soul are laid bare with only their necessity at the surface. I revel in my ability to be skin deep. We keep no secrets from each other because there are no secrets to be had. Our roots grow deep and intermingled. We work together to care for the forest of bodies. In the forest, there is enough water and earth to go around because we create it for each other. There is no metric to reach for being cared for. There are no requirements for the body to meet to be considered a body.
What are our necessities? It may be that we have lost sight of what they are. So, I will speak for myself. I want the rain to come down fresh and clean so I can drink it. I want to taste something delicious every night. I want to run as fast as I can, whatever that might mean. Only my fastest. There is no reason to be the greatest who ever lived. That accolade is taken by someone who cares a lot more than I do about it, and it deserves it a lot more. I just want to get where I’m going. More than anything; I want where I’m going to be there when I arrive. A dream that didn’t used to feel so tenuous. Before all the forests were cut down in pursuit of the American dream.
Recently, I have developed a theory that the new American dream is being an influencer. Maybe wellness, maybe not. On paper, yes, a shallow dream. In practice? Could it be our voices screaming out as one about the desire to create something, anything, and receive a livelihood for it? We can't all be suffering artists. Too many bodies would wither away under the pressure. Instead, we stretch our bodies as far as they can go. Anything to live as best as we can. Even now, we reach toward the sun. We adapt to survive. Survival has just become different. The niche for life management opened up, and people sprang to fill it. That’s what the cult really is. It’s a to-do list for how to live our lives.
As technology reaches its apex and the lucky few reach total luxury through their wealth they no longer have their health to worry about. They have their wellness. A full-body strategy that requires a team of people to get there. An ongoing battle to be better, more beautiful, and further from your body in its natural form. To be striving for this constant wellness the baseline of a person’s motivation must come from self-hate or will develop that soon enough. The psychological toll of setting frequent and taxing goals and then not reaching them is astronomical. It tanks self-esteem, creates anxiety and obsession, and cultivates a culture of perfectionism. Not just the body but the entire life. There is always something missing. Something that could be trained to be more beautiful.
And, these new anxieties do not replace the old ones. The hurt and shame surrounding a body that might draw someone to wellness only increase as these practices become more ingrained in their behavior. The beauty that wellness strives for is not subjective. It’s not wild and ever-changing. This beauty does not take the time to consider how many moments had to happen and collect just right to create the person you see in front of you. The beauty of wellness is thin white men and women. The game is rigged from the start. Of course, it is. No version of wellness cares for your beauty. That is thoughtful and kind. That would care for you no matter what you look like. But, there are people who do, and I’m looking for them.
Body as Body
My body is a body, and I’m glad it is. I watch my knees bend when I ask them and feel my eyes squint against the sun. The sun that withers me. The sun that I’m reaching toward. I wonder how I could be so angry with the body that cares for me the only way it knows how. If there’s a home I carry with me, it is the one that carries me everywhere I go. I once took comfort in the fact that this body was not me, just where I lived. I hid from the physicality of my life and took refuge in the places deep within my mind where I thought I truly dwelt. As if my soul were too pure to be on this plane, in the land of the living. There I was; eating and drinking and laughing and kissing and acting like I was already dead. But I can’t live outside my body, and I no longer want to.
I don’t know when my health became tied to my physical beauty and personal gratification. Perhaps some of us have an exact moment, in childhood, when we realized that our bodies were no longer ours. That they would always be watched, and scrutinized. That no matter what something would always be wrong with them. Perhaps there was no one moment, only years. Years of walking through the world and getting the message everywhere we look.
Here is where I am stopping myself. I am no longer looking and no longer punishing myself and those around me for the anger I feel toward my body. I have been guilty of yearning for wellness. I have felt its pull. Of course, I can be better, but not because of how my body moves and works. Not because of how I look. There is a duty we have to each other and our bodies, and that is care, it’s kindness. I invite us all to be bodies together. Not rocks or forests. Not the perfect version of ourselves. To care for each other, it could be enough to be bodies together.
