Feeling (un)well: the toxic side of the wellness industry
Picture this. You’re fresh out of a spin class that cost you an arm and a leg – literally. Dripping in sweat and looking to quench your thirst, you are tempted by the juice bar selling overpriced activated charcoal and wheat germ smoothies. After caving in, you spend £5 on a grass juice that makes cattle cud look appealing. You then decide you’re after something a bit more ‘substantial’. How about a ‘sugar-free’ energise bar that tastes like sawdust? Or a ‘guilt-free’ cookie made from oxygen and chocolate chip soot? Don’t forget to take a flyer for ‘bee-sting therapy’ on your way out – apparently, it can solve not only inflammation but also all terminal illnesses and global poverty!
Cynicism aside, I know I’m not the only one who has wandered into a health shop with a throbbing headache, forked out £3.99 for an ‘immune-boosting’ shot of turmeric, carrot, and ginger; downing it in one thinking it will somehow reverse years of liver and lung damage. This seductive ‘eternal youth’ marketing is a testament to the health and wellness industry’s success – it comes as no surprise that the industry is expected to hit $6.5 billion by 2026.
The pandemic has brought health and fitness to the forefront of our minds and also to the minds of legislators. Knowing this, the wellness industry has upped the ante by tapping into our immune-based insecurities. Recently, Goop founder, celebrity actress and “lifestyle guru” Gwyneth Paltrow (yes, her again) wrote on her blog that she had Covid-19 “early on” and that it had left her with “brain fog” and “long-tail fatigue”. Now, how did million-dollar celebrity Guru Gwyneth deal with such symptoms? By “skipping breakfast”, following a “keto and a plant-based diet”, “drinking herbal cocktails”, and “visiting an infrared sauna” – naturally.
National Medical Director of NHS England, Professor Stephen Powis, was quick to slam ‘influencers’ like Paltrow for spreading health misinformation: “We need to take long Covid seriously and apply serious science”, said Powis. “All influencers who use social media have a duty of responsibility and duty of care around that.” This is not the latest Goop claim to cause controversy. The site has also platformed claims that: underwire bras could cause breast cancer, that there are toxins in tampons, that a vaginal jade egg could help with bladder control, and that bee-sting therapy can help with inflammation and scarring.
Yet, Guru Gwen is a microcosm of a much bigger issue at play here; the toxic side of the wellness industry and how some influencers profiteer by spreading misinformation. Look no further than former wellness blogger and pseudoscience advocate Belle Gibson. Gibson first caught the public eye after claiming she had cured herself of terminal cancer by rejecting conventional medicine favouring a “healthy diet and lifestyle”. This ‘lifestyle’ was undoubtedly lucrative, forming the basis of a successful book, an app, advice and cooking recipes. In 2015, Gibson was exposed as a fraud. She never had cancer and, despite promising, failed to donate proceeds to charity. Her misleading claims may have got her 410,000 likes, but her misleading health claims got her stuck with a fine of $410,000.
Although frauds like Gibson’s are uncommon, they do exist. They also raise important questions about the wellness industry and the ‘chic’ charlatans that shape wellness messaging to suit their agendas. But what exactly is the concept of ‘wellness’, and how does it have negative repercussions for health and nutrition?
Our modern use of the word ‘wellness’ can be traced back to the 1950s and was defined by the physician Halbert L. Dunn as a “condition of change in which the individual moves forward, climbing toward a higher potential of functioning.” In the latter half of the 20th century, the fitness industry started experiencing rapid global growth, bringing an ever-expanding line-up of celebrities and self-help experts that helped bring wellness into the mainstream. However, over the past decade, the phrase ‘wellness’ has been lost in translation. It is now more of a lifestyle, one that has been exploited by advertisers and marketers, who have equated wellness with something that is purchasable. “Living your best life” is a lucrative commodity, and everyone – advertisers through to social media influencers – have a stake in encouraging people to pursue it.
The influencer marketing industry is on track to be worth up to $15 billion this year, up from $8 billion in 2019. This booming economy has resulted in the rise of these wellness bloggers and influencers who monetise through advertorials and affiliate programmes. On platforms like Instagram, influencers can often give legitimate nutritional advice such as ‘exercise regularly’ or ‘eat more greens’. Yet these surface-level recommendations often come hand-in-hand with other commercially-backed posts offering ‘slimming teas’ and ‘detox cleanses’. In other words, short-term (and expensive) remedies for long-term issues.
Of course, some influencers are nutritionally licensed, but most do not have the credentials needed to impart medical advice. Take Loni Jane Anthony, one of the best-known wellness influencers on Instagram. As an outsider looking in, the Australian’s life seems enviably picture-perfect. There are endless snaps of carefully choreographed fruit and salad bowls and superfood smoothies. After spending her early 20s eating junk food, Anthony started to cut out all animal products, eating only uncooked fruits and vegetables. She then claimed she rid herself of ‘abnormal cancerous cells’ in her cervix by eating a ‘plant-based diet’ and using charcoal and watermelon. Anthony came under attack in the Australian tabloids for this advice, where doctors went on record to debunk some of her health claims as “utter garbage”. Anthony is not an enigma; social media is littered with beautiful, lean bloggers imparting misinformation about maintaining their ‘healthy’ lifestyles.
But herein lies the issue. These bloggers and influencers suggest that their Instagram-able lives are purchasable; you too can one day wake up with a six-pack of abs, you too can have long, wavy hair, and you too can survive off leaves and bark. But the combination of the wellness trend, its trendsetters, and the outreach of social media has led to a problematic rise in ‘Orthorexia’.
‘Orthorexia’ is a term coined by the late ’90s by Dr Steven Bratman to describe an intense fixation with healthy eating, focusing on the quality and purity of the food. Although it is not officially recognised as an eating disorder, it has become a disturbing way to describe victims who have suffered from unsolicited health advice.
Jessica Knoll, the New York Times bestselling author, wrote a coruscating opinion piece on the matter, arguing it is impossible to separate the wellness and diet industries from one another and that ‘wellness’ is mostly a euphemism for being thin. She wrote: “Dieting presents itself as wellness and clean eating, duping modern feminists to participate under the guise of health. […]. When you have to deprive, punish and isolate yourself to look “good”, it is impossible to feel good. I was my sickest and loneliest when I appeared my healthiest.”
As Knoll touches on in her article, the consumers of this ‘wellness’ are most commonly women who are white, privileged and thin. The classist angle to the wellness industry is concerning; it seduces affluent women with the idea that there is always room for improvement whilst chastising anyone who can’t afford to emulate a Stepford Wife. Consumers of ‘wellness’ have the time to focus on eating ‘clean’, whereas those who resort to ‘dirty’ fast food and ‘unhealthy’ sugary drinks do not have the luxury of choice.
The Covid-19 pandemic has had a significant impact on all our lives. Still, it has been most devastating for minority ethnic communities who have been disproportionately affected by the virus. There is an undeniable connection between poor health and deprivation. Whether ill health is poverty, diet, housing or air-related, it’s a deep-rooted socioeconomic issue that cannot be fixed with a bottle of kombucha.
Over the past decade, the growth of the health and fitness industry has been accompanied by the unprecedented rise of the wellness influencer. While there is sound advice and legitimate profiles out there, the online metrics of likes, shares, and follows have meant any unlicensed influencer can warp health messaging. It would be nice – perhaps naive – to envisage a future where all influencers are fact-checked and where they use their platforms as a positive force for change, shaking off any harmful notions of quack-ish pseudoscience, calorie-obsession and white-centricity. But for now, the ‘wellness guru’ movement shows no signs of slowing. So, in that case, the next time you stumble across an influencer trying to solve terminal illnesses with a prehistoric dragon egg, pause for a moment, separate the wheat from the chaff, and ask yourself who might be having the last laugh.