Practitioner or Client? How Capitalism Has Reshaped the Language of Modern Yoga.
A personal reflection on cultural shifts, economic language, and the quiet resistance of consciously choosing our words.
In 2020, while researching my thesis, I explored the rapidly expanding wellness industry and its intersection with practices like modern yoga. The numbers I once cited have only grown: the global wellness economy, valued at $4.6 trillion in 2020, reached $6.3 trillion by 2023, with projections climbing to $9 trillion by 2028 (Global Wellness Institute, 2023).
This explosive growth reflects more than just a rising interest in well-being—it signals a broader societal shift: the transformation of wellness into a commodity. Practices once rooted in introspection, discipline, and connection are increasingly repackaged as marketable services for consumption. In the process, culturally grounded traditions are often stripped of context and rebranded to fit lifestyle trends, corporate aesthetics, and the logic of scalability (the ability to expand something quickly and efficiently—to reach more people, generate more revenue, or replicate a model with minimal additional effort).
It wasn’t until I moved to Costa Rica in 2021 that I began to experience this shift in language directly—and frequently. Yoga teachers, space-holders, and facilitators referred to their students or participants as “clients.” Communities became “markets,” sacred or transformational practices were packaged into products, and healing processes turned into branded offers. What initially surprised me soon became disorienting. While these terms may aim to professionalize, legitimize, or clarify offerings, they also reshape the nature of teacher-student and participant-facilitator relationships —making it transactional and implying a commercial hierarchy. This shift mirrors broader capitalist influences, where even spiritual or communal experiences are filtered through consumerist frameworks.
At the same time, I was adjusting to the fact that most yoga classes were taught in English—even in a Spanish-speaking country. Something in me was buzzing. A quiet internal alarm. It all felt off—but I wasn’t sure why. It was my first direct encounter with what I recognized as the ongoing cultural dominance of the United States in certain parts of Latin America—particularly in Costa Rica, where tourism, the “spiritual retreat industry”, and communities of self-identified “expats” (rather than acknowledging themselves as privileged immigrants) significantly shape the yoga and wellness landscape. This form of linguistic and cultural hegemony is part of a larger, deeply rooted history—one that calls for closer examination, likely in my next article.
But then I moved to Australia in 2024, and I noticed how naturally these same terms were used in yoga studios too—how comfortably embedded they had become in everyday vocabulary. So I began to observe, reflect, and try to understand.
At first, I interpreted it as a kind of cultural shock for me. Many of the people using this language came from societies where capitalism permeates nearly every layer of life—where speaking in terms of personal branding, performance, and market positioning is the norm. Even spiritual or therapeutic work is often framed as part of the service industry. The issue isn’t entrepreneurship itself, but how, when applied uncritically and by default, it can end up commodifying even the most intimate and transformative spaces. In order to be seen as professional or legitimate, even yoga is often forced to adopt the language of commerce.
As Jeremy Carrette and Richard King argue in Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion (2005), neoliberalism hasn’t simply commercialized spiritual traditions—it has repackaged them into tools for personal optimization, severing them from their collective, ethical, and liberatory roots. When capitalism becomes culture, even the most sacred languages begin to sound like sales pitches.
But I come from Argentina. And not just from Argentina—I come from a part of society that actively questions and resists some of the dynamics of global capitalism. A society shaped by economic instability, but also by deep-rooted political awareness, powerful social movements, and a collective memory of what happens when markets are prioritized over people. I’ve also known teachers and studio owners who make an honest, sustainable living by sharing yoga with integrity.
So this is not a rejection of economic reality. Sustainability matters. Teachers deserve fair compensation. Practice spaces require financial support. And expanding access to yoga remains an ethical and worthwhile aim. In many ways, modern business tools have enabled teachers to create viable livelihoods and connect with broader communities.
I believe I carry a sensitivity—shaped by growing up in a politicized culture—toward the way language slowly reshapes values, and how easily a liberatory practice can begin to mirror the very systems it once sought to question.
Language, as Judith Butler (1997) reminds us, does not merely reflect the world—it constitutes it. Words are not neutral; they shape our sense of self, our relationships, our beliefs. Calling someone a “client” instead of a “student” isn’t just a semantic switch—it reconfigures the relationship itself: from shared inquiry to service provision, from co-exploration to transactional exchange.
Scholar Andrea Jain, in her book Selling Yoga: From Counterculture to Pop Culture (2015), offers a sharp diagnosis: modern postural yoga is no longer just a spiritual or physical discipline—it has become a global commodity. Jain writes that yoga today is “a product of consumer culture and part of the broader modern transnational yoga movement,” shaped by “the dominant and global socioeconomic forces of market capitalism.”
She emphasizes that what we now recognize as yoga—particularly in the mainstream—has been “reinterpreted to meet the needs and desires of contemporary consumers.” Image-driven aesthetics, lifestyle narratives, and the promise of individual self-optimization have become defining features of yoga’s public identity. Teachers are expected to cultivate a personal image and students are viewed as niche audiences.
As Jain puts it: “The authority to define yoga is no longer derived primarily from sacred texts or spiritual lineages, but from market success.” In this framework, a teacher’s legitimacy is often measured not by depth of understanding or consistency of practice, but by visibility and marketability. This is how commodification operates—it doesn’t just distribute a product, it redefines the very practice itself.
What’s powerful about Jain’s contribution is that she doesn’t romanticize the lost purity of yoga—she simply exposes the mechanisms. She shows how spirituality and commodification now coexist in a “symbiotic relationship.” One doesn’t cancel out the other—but they inevitably shape one another. The danger lies not in their coexistence, but in forgetting this dynamic exists at all.
And this is the precise tension I feel: that the language we use doesn’t merely describe what yoga has become—it actively produces it. And when that language is drawn from consumer culture, we risk transforming a practice of inner inquiry into something to package, monetize, and endlessly optimize.
To understand how yoga—despite all this—can still be framed as a spiritual discipline, we need to look at the work of scholar Elizabeth De Michelis. In A History of Modern Yoga (2004), she proposes that what we call modern yoga—particularly the widespread, posture-focused variety—emerged as a new form of spirituality in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Far from being a direct continuation of ancient Indian traditions, modern yoga is, according to De Michelis, a modern, hybrid creation: shaped by transnational exchanges, influenced by Western science and psychology, and adapted to the norms and aspirations of modern life.
She calls this category Modern Psychosomatic Yoga (MPsY), and defines it as a non-religious yet spiritual self-development system, one that integrates physical, mental, and emotional practices with the aim of personal transformation. In this framework, yoga functions not as a rigid doctrinal tradition, but as a spiritual technology—a method of cultivating awareness, balance, and inner growth in ways that are deeply meaningful to practitioners, even outside of traditional religious contexts.
This matters. Because even as yoga becomes increasingly entangled with branding and commodification, for many people it remains a profound and intimate path—a form of embodied inquiry, a refuge, a tool for re-centering in a fragmented world.
Recognizing this dual nature—allows us to see that what’s at stake is not whether yoga is “pure” or “corrupted,” but how consciously we engage with the systems that now shape it, and whether our language reinforces or resists those logics.
If we accept, as De Michelis suggests, that modern yoga is a new kind of spiritual discourse—one that lives outside institutional religion but still speaks to ethical and existential questions—then we must also ask:
Are we shaping the future of yoga, or is capitalism shaping it for us?
Are we promoting yoga as a path of transformation, or as a consumable feel-good service?
Are we educating students, or merely competing for their attention in an oversaturated attention economy?
What does this language reveal about the unseen ideologies shaping contemporary yoga?
I want to add another layer—beyond language, beyond business. It’s the question of lineage.
What many refer to as “traditional yoga” is, of course, a complex and plural history. There is no single, pure origin. But it is widely acknowledged that classical forms of yoga were not structured around client-provider dynamics. The relationship between teacher and student was often framed through the model of guru-śiṣya paramparā—a lineage-based system of transmission grounded on long-term commitment, ethical responsibility, and spiritual depth. As Jain explains, these models often required "a committed relationship in an inferior position vis-à-vis a qualified guru for years," usually accompanied by intensive study of sacred literature and immersion in a shared worldview. Knowledge was not a product—it was something received and integrated through proximity, repetition, and mutual commitment. But this model began to shift in the second half of the 20th century. Jain notes that, "instead of relying on one-on-one transmission through the traditional guru–disciple relationship in the isolated context of the guru’s ashram," many modern gurus began actively marketing their teachings, making them accessible for immediate consumption. What once required devotion, discipline, and shared context became available through choreographed intensives or packaged experiences.
But naming it here matters. Not because it should be replicated exactly—but because it reminds us that there once was a form of teaching rooted not in profit, visibility, or scale, but in relational depth and shared truth-seeking. Because in the noise of algorithms, attention economies, and commercial strategy, I want to remember: teaching yoga once implied a kind of ethical responsibility that cannot be reduced to marketing plans or viral content.
So how did we go from being part of living lineages to becoming freelancers referring to our students as "clients"? If we’re going to call ourselves teachers, let us pause and ask: What does it mean to teach? Are we cultivating students—or simply attracting customers?
This isn’t about shaming those who use commercial language in good faith. Many never questioned it—because it’s the language they inherited. They were trained to be entrepreneurs, to survive in an economic system that rewards clarity, branding, and sales. And often, they’re trying their best to share something meaningful while navigating an unforgiving economy.
We must also ask: What systems are we upholding when we normalize the language of extraction and commodification in spaces intended for reflection, presence, and transformation?
Whether or not we call them sacred, these spaces matter. And if the practice itself calls us toward clarity, compassion, and awareness, shouldn’t our words be held to the same standard?
“You can’t buy presence. You can’t package stillness. You can’t trademark liberation. The path was never for sale.”
— Vikram @wanderingmat
If, as many feminists—especially in Spanish-speaking countries—have insisted, changing language is a revolutionary act, then rethinking our words in yoga is not a trivial matter. It is a political, cultural, and ethical one. Shifting how we speak is also a way of shifting what (and who) we are able to see. We’ve witnessed the power of this in our own lifetimes.
In Latin America, inclusive language emerged as a feminist tool to break the illusion of neutrality in masculine generics. Alternatives like “todxs, todes, or todas y todos” disrupted grammatical norms to make visible what had long been erased. It wasn’t just about grammar—it was about being named, and therefore, being recognized.
In countries like Argentina and Mexico, the shift from calling “crimes of passion” to recognizing them as “femicides” marked a necessary and overdue correction. What was once dismissed as impulsive acts driven by jealousy or love was rightly redefined as the most extreme form of patriarchal violence. This change in language was not just semantic—it reframed the public’s understanding of the issue, revealed its systemic roots, and demanded a far stronger response from the justice system, the state, the media, and society as a whole.
Environmental activists also insisted on changing “climate change” to “climate crisis.” What once sounded like a gradual shift was redefined as an urgent emergency. The new language sparked global headlines, movements, and a deeper sense of collective responsibility.
As Buckminster Fuller once said:
“You never change things by fighting the existing reality.
To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.”
Imagining New Models: Creative, Respectful Alternatives
So what could that new model look like? Let’s begin with language:
Using Student or Practitioner Instead of Client
Calling someone a student highlights a relationship centered on learning, growth, and active engagement. It shifts the dynamic toward humility, education, and co-exploration—moving away from the impersonal, transactional tone often associated with the word “client.”Similarly, the term practitioner recognizes ongoing commitment and personal embodiment of the practice, emphasizing continuous development rather than a mere service exchange.
Referring to Communities Instead of Markets
Today, the word “community” is used everywhere—sometimes so casually that its true meaning gets lost. Many spaces call themselves communities, yet often lack the genuine connection, trust, and shared purpose that real communities require. Markets, by contrast, are inherently transactional, where relationships can feel impersonal and fleeting. Shifting the mindset from markets to authentic communities invites us to prioritize collaboration, mutual care, and belonging. It’s about creating environments where people feel truly seen, supported, and connected—not just as consumers, but as active participants in a shared path.Avoid Collapsing Identity Into Branding
Branding, when well understood, is a tool for communication: it allows the values, aesthetics, and intentions behind a project to be expressed coherently. It can help studios and teachers share their work in a clear and meaningful way. But branding should never dictate the direction of a practice or become more important than its purpose. It does not stand above the message or the mission.When we confuse branding with identity, we risk limiting the potential of yoga spaces. I’ve seen decisions driven more by aesthetic concerns than by the deeper meaning of the work—ideas dismissed for “not aligning with the brand” without first asking whether they nourish the community, open dialogue, or deepen the practice.
Branding can become a well-polished cage: controlled, recognizable, but dangerously closed. It's better to create expressive spaces—yes—but ones that are also permeable, alive, in motion. Let the visual and verbal identity support the practice, not overshadow it. Because we are not brands. We are people, in constant relationship with what we teach and with those around us.
Name practice over product.
Let yoga remain a living sādhanā—not a product polished for display, but a private encounter with oneself. A space where the real work happens—quietly, repetitively, often uncomfortably. It doesn’t seek attention, validation, or speed. It requires showing up when it’s inconvenient, staying when it’s dull, and returning when no one is watching. And because sādhanā unfolds slowly, it asks for relationships that are also slow. A teacher, in this context, is not there to please or entertain. They’re not offering a service, but a thread—one you choose to follow for as long as it serves your unfolding.
When yoga becomes a product, the teacher becomes replaceable, the student becomes a customer, and the practice is hollowed out to fit the expectations of a market. But when yoga is held as sādhanā, the relationship is built on mutual respect, long attention, and the recognition that both people are engaged in the difficult work of being human.Acknowledge elitism and privilege, and actively create access.
In many tourist-heavy areas across Latin America, yoga classes are often offered exclusively in English. This creates a barrier for local communities who may not speak English fluently, limiting their access to these practices. To foster true inclusion, offer bilingual classes—both Spanish and English—and demonstrate a genuine effort to learn and use the local language. This respect for local culture helps dismantle elitism and creates a more welcoming, accessible environment for everyone. Provide clear scholarship options and tiered pricing that reflect diverse economic realities. Not everyone can—or will—pay high prices for wellness experiences. And valuable offerings don’t need to be high-cost to be meaningful. Creating access doesn’t mean devaluing the work; it means being intentional about who can participate and how.
And finally—let’s not forget that language shapes thought.
If capitalism has given us a dominant script, then we—as yoga practitioners—have every right and responsibility to write a new one. One that centers dignity, depth, and liberation over sales funnels and target audiences.
We don’t need to fight the system. We just need to become conscious enough not to replicate it blindly.
Let yoga remain a path—not a product.
Let teachers be teachers—not brands.
Let us be students—never just clients.
Let us meet again in the sacred space where words are not just spoken— but chosen with care.
Because change often begins with the smallest, most conscious word. And at the end of the day, we are all learning to unlearn.
