For years, I’ve roamed the world’s most lavish hotels as a travel journalist, experiencing every decadent amenity money can buy. But among the countless five-star perks, one recurring horror stands out: the wellness resort. The latest season of The White Lotus brilliantly exposes the sanctimonious absurdity of these retreats, but believe me, the reality is far worse.
From the moment you step into these sanctuaries of overpriced self-discovery, you are greeted by a faux-serene army of staff, forced into a never-ending cycle of forced smiles and whispered affirmations. The opening scenes of The White Lotus Thailand season capture it perfectly. Guests surrender their devices into tiny linen pouches for a “digital detox” as they are force-fed an ideology of presence, peace, and premium-priced kombucha. But as anyone who has visited a high-end wellness resort will tell you, the only thing people are truly detoxing from is common sense.
Indulgent For Self Care
I’ve encountered countless guests in these enclaves of indulgent self-care. There’s a particular breed of clientele with unlimited funds and even fewer redeeming qualities. They wander barefoot in expensive linen, sipping chlorophyll water while preaching left-wing ideals to underpaid staff they wouldn’t spare a second thought for outside the retreat. Most of them, alas, tend to be women with personalities as inflated as their wellness bills. The Global Wellness Institute estimates the industry to be worth $7 trillion this year, and resorts exploit these delusions mercilessly.
Take Victoria Ratliff, Parker Posey’s character in The White Lotus. A benzodiazepine-popping, unapologetic relic of old money, she at least doesn’t pretend to be anything other than she is. She reminds me of the pensioners in Hua Hin and Koh Samui, struggling with the twin curses of expensive boredom and no sex. When she wails about needing her lorazepam to sleep, I can think of at least ten women I’ve met at wellness retreats who could have delivered the line with equal desperation.
Then there’s her son, Saxon, who—though insufferable—makes one valid point: “Buddhism is for people who want to suppress life.”
These resorts are filled with affluent Westerners who are terrified of attachment but eager to buy enlightenment, treating meditation like a subscription service rather than a discipline. They crave detachment but demand a tailored experience, complete with organic robes and personalized mantras.
But it’s the self-proclaimed health visionaries who are the true villains. Enter Sritala, the resort’s owner, who is hailed as a wellness deity by her employees. “I have an autoimmune disease,” she announces proudly. “I even wrote books.” These are the types of people wellness resorts worship—figures who package suffering into a brand and charge you for access to their survival techniques. I have met many like her. They lecture journalists on their unique approach to well-being, as if ancient healing secrets were something they personally invented last year between yoga classes. If I had a dollar for every time one of these wellness moguls tried to sell me a philosophy, I’d have enough to check into The White Lotus on my own dime.
The White Lotus
Of course, true to form, beneath the layers of spiritual purity, the guests of The White Lotus succumb to every vice they came to escape. Alcoholism, illicit drugs, emotional betrayals, and—if the show’s formula holds—at least one murder. The veneer of serenity barely lasts beyond the opening retreat ceremony.
Then there’s the trio of so-called best friends—Jaclyn, Laurie, and Kate—who arrive with virtuous intentions, nibbling on fruit salads and attending biometric assessments, only for their flaws to unravel by the second. One’s a closet alcoholic, another cheats with the resort’s resident Adonis, and the third commits the greatest sin of all in the eyes of her left-leaning friends—she is a secret Trump supporter. Their conversations, delivered through gritted, bleach-white smiles, capture the true essence of a wellness retreat: judgment wrapped in yoga-pose diplomacy.
South East Asia
It’s not just fiction. Southeast Asia, in particular, is rife with these sanctuaries of self-centeredness. For every authentic holistic healer, there are twenty overpriced wellness retreats masquerading as sacred spaces. They thrive on the illusions of Westerners desperate to purchase meaning, seeking validation in a turmeric latte and a chakra-balancing session. I have long since removed these places from my travel map. But I will say, my two ladies in Hua Hin—authentic, knowledgeable, and utterly unsanctimonious—have changed my gut health. Unlike the overpriced, pseudo-scientific nonsense peddled at these luxury sanctuaries, their Thai herb therapy has worked wonders for me. No gimmicks, no mantras, just real results.
At the end of the day, wellness tourism is an industry built on contradiction. Those who flock to these retreats are convinced they are practicing self-care when, in reality, they are luxuriating in self-indulgence. I have been in too many overpriced sweat lodges, survived too many silent retreats where nobody shut up, and witnessed too many detoxes that ended in martinis. If The White Lotus has exaggerated anything, it’s only in making these resorts appear more entertaining than they really are. The reality? It’s just insufferable.
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