wellness used to mean something. now it means buying things.

there was a version of wellness that didn’t require a checkout. it looked like sleeping when you were tired. eating something warm. sitting with a friend and saying the actual thing instead of the fine version of the thing. it cost nothing and nobody photographed it, because there was nothing to photograph just a person, feeling slightly less terrible than they did an hour ago.

that version is still technically legal. you can still do it. but somewhere between then and now, wellness got a supply chain.

now it means the sixteen-step skin situation. the supplement drawer that requires its own inventory system. the red light mask you wear like a welding visor while scrolling on your phone, which is either the least or most self-aware thing a person can do, i haven’t decided. the $40 water bottle that tracks your ounces like it’s on commission. the retreat that costs more than your rent and asks you to “unplug,” which is a service you are paying a great deal of money for a stranger to remind you to do.

i want to be clear that none of these things are morally wrong. drink from the fancy bottle. i’m not the water police. what i’m interested in is the swap that happened underneath it, the quiet rebrand where “are you well” became “what have you bought recently in pursuit of being well,” and nobody voted on this, it just sort of… happened, the way a fog happens.

it happened because wellness, unlike rest, is a category you can sell into infinitely. rest has a ceiling — you can only sleep so many hours, sit so still, do so much nothing. but “optimisation” has no ceiling. there is always a next thing. a better mattress. a smarter ring. a more specific magnesium. the goalposts are on wheels, and the industry keeps them moving, because a person who feels finished doesn’t buy anything else.

i bought the supplement in the dropper bottle. the one that costs $86 and tastes like a swimming pool and is meant to do something to my nervous system that i still can’t explain to you with any confidence. i took it every morning for six weeks. i felt, as far as i could tell, exactly the same as before, except $86 lighter and now slightly anxious about running out. that’s the trick nobody tells you. some of these products don’t fail to work. they succeed at something, just not the something you paid for. they succeed at making you feel like you’re doing something, which is a different feeling entirely from being well, but close enough that the brain gets confused.

here’s what actually made me feel better that same month, for free: a walk with no destination. a text back to a friend i’d been avoiding out of shame, not disinterest. going to bed on time three nights in a row, which sounds pathetic to type and felt like a miracle to do. none of it was purchasable. none of it made anyone any money, which is possibly the whole reason nobody’s selling it to you.

so here’s the permission slip, in case the aisle has started to feel like a test you’re failing.

you do not need the sixteenth step. you do not need the ring, the roller, the retreat, or the dropper, unless you actually want them — genuinely want them, not “everyone i follow has one so i must be behind” want them. wellness that requires a cart is not a rule. it’s a business model wearing a rule’s clothes.

be well the free way sometimes. sleep. walk. say the real thing to the real person. it won’t photograph well. do it anyway.

honest wellness, honest cost. permission to be human and imperfect.

love,

saolful.