✍️ By Jenna McCarthy
When I started having babies more than two decades ago, to say I was overwhelmed by new motherhood would be like saying teaching a cat to play guitar can be a little tricky. There was so much to read, so much to do, so much to know. Every time I thought I had a grip on things, a playgroup mom would casually drop a comment like, “Oh, you’re not teaching her sign language?” or “Wow, you don’t have a sleep cycle spreadsheet?” and I’d resign myself to the fact that no matter how hard I tried, it would never be enough.
I saw something this week—a video shared by an equally awake, well-meaning friend—that flooded me with the same feelings of failure. A sweet old farmer was explaining that if you just saved your eggshells, rinsed them off, boiled them, dried them out, baked them, crushed them into a powder, and then added a teaspoon to your kale smoothie every day, you’d be consuming one of the planet’s most powerful forms of calcium.
I wanted to consume one of the planet’s most powerful forms of calcium! The problem was, I also wanted to work out, cook healthy meals from scratch, keep my house tidy, spend time with my family, read, write, shave my legs, earn a living, and occasionally run to TJMaxx. I was already grounding, supplementing, lifting weights, meditating, and journaling. My daily to-do list was longer than a CVS receipt. Who had time for artisanal eggshell flakes?
Welcome to Extreme Wellness Culture—where biohacking isn’t an optional side hustle, it’s a full-time job. We’re supposed to dry-brush before sunrise, chug apple cider vinegar, ditch seed oils, filter our water (don’t forget to remineralize it!), rip out our fillings, dig our feet into the earth, avoid invisible radiation, track our glucose, fix our hormones, fast intermittently, be cognitively enhanced (what do you mean you aren’t taking nootropics?), practice our breathwork, marinate in red light, optimize our circadian rhythms, cold plunge, sauna, detox, alkalize, vitaminize, moisturize (only with tallow, of course), manifest, meditate, hydrate, vibrate, levitate, and still show up glowing, grateful, and inexplicably well-rested. In a weighted vest, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.
When the world started waking up to the evils of Big Pharma, many of us sought solace in the comforting arms of Big Wellness. We didn’t need lab coats—we needed organic linen! Forget the prescriptions; we wanted poultices. Plant tinctures. Probiotics. Parasite cleanses! We finally understood the customer-for-life business model that Pharma operated under, and we collectively agreed that the wisest course of action was to not become a patient in the first place.
It wasn’t a bad plan.
The problem is, the wellness model, at scale, doesn’t run on “You’re doing great, carry on.” It runs on optimization. On the subtle suggestion that there’s always another layer to unlock. Another toxin to eliminate. Another protocol to try. Sure, you’re not sick. But could you be even healthier?
And that’s where things start to feel familiar. Because optimization has a business model, too. And like any good business model, it doesn’t end with “you made it.” It doesn’t even end with “you’re close.” It just… doesn’t end. What, after all, is optimal?
Big Wellness doesn’t treat; it prevents. It doesn’t prescribe; it recommends. It doesn’t bill insurance; it auto-ships. But the mechanics are the same. All-knowing oracles. Relentless marketing. Expanding product lines. A steady stream of customers chasing the next upgrade. (“Version 12.0, now with an improved microbiome and a slightly tighter jawline!”)
Today it’s a $28 jar of magnesium powder. Tomorrow it’s a $400 gut panel. Next week it’s a subscription box of adaptogens sourced from a mountain that can only be accessed by monks in ethically sourced wool robes. Yes, you’re avoiding the medical system—because you’ve built a parallel one in your pantry. (I can’t be the only person with a drawer full of pills and potions I don’t even remember buying, let alone what they’re supposed to ward off or fix.)
The vitality industry has absolutely filled in real gaps—nutrition, lifestyle, awareness, prevention… the unglamorous, unpatentable stuff that doesn’t fit neatly onto a prescription pad. And a lot of these things work. I am not here to take away anyone’s red light therapy or fermented sea moss. But in the wellness realm, there’s a fine line between self-improvement and obsession.
Big Pharma made its money convincing us we were sick. Big Wellness is cashing in by convincing us we’re never quite well enough. And that “not quite” is where many people live. It’s where they spend. It’s where they spiral just a little bit, wondering if the reason they’re tired is because they didn’t ground long enough, didn’t cold plunge hard enough, or forgot to balance their frequencies during the last full moon. It’s also where the aesthetic starts to replace the outcome. The glass jars. The amber bottles. The perfectly arranged supplements that make your kitchen look like an apothecary curated by Anthropologie. You may not feel dramatically different, but your countertop is definitely thriving.
At least you escaped the Pharma matrix! Only now instead of a doctor telling you what to do, it’s a thousand influencers gently suggesting you could be doing more. More sunlight. More minerals. More discipline. More intention. And if you’re not careful, “health” becomes another performance metric. Another place to succeed or fail. Another voice whispering, you’re behind.
For some people, wellness is a flex. Let me impress you with my dedication to self-optimization! For many, it’s about control. They can poison the air and the water all they want; this terrain can take it. For still others, it’s peace of mind. If I ever get cancer, nobody can say it was my own fault. And for the rest of us, it’s just about having something—a framework, a system, a set of rules—that makes the chaos feel manageable.
But here’s the part no one puts in the protocol: it’s tempting to treat your anatomy like a kitchen remodel that never quite wraps—constantly in need of being disassembled, upgraded, maximized, and reassembled. Body Depot (tag line: “You can do it, we can help!”) never closes. Meanwhile, your human suit is doing a shocking amount of work every second of every day without your supervision, your spreadsheet, or your Himalayan salt lamp.
So sure—drink the ACV if you’re moved to. Sweat it out in the sauna. Take the supplements. Meditate. Pull coconut oil. Splurge on fancy grounding sheets. (I do all of these things!) Track your glucose if it brings you joy. Truly. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel better, live better, be better. But chances are—if you’re following the IMA—you’re already doing a lot. You don’t actually have to do it all. If the thought of baking your eggshells into a fine calcium dust or skipping breakfast for the rest of ever makes you want to dive head-first into an ice bath, it’s okay to skip it. Really.
Because despite what the algorithms—and the organic cotton-clad Optimization Industrial Complex™—might suggest, you are probably not one missed protocol away from collapse. You are, in all likelihood, doing just fine. Your bio is sufficiently hacked.
Give it to me straight: do you ever experience wellness overload? Or are you all in on every last protocol? Share your thoughts in the comments on Substack! :)
