“Close your eyes and bring to mind one thing you’re calling in from [the universe],” instructed Lacy Phillips, a former TV actress and model in her midthirties, now a self-proclaimed manifestation expert. “Boil it down to the essence of this thing that lights up your soul.”
Wearing a ruffled white shirt and black gaucho hat, Phillips exuded approachable confidence. Over the next hour, she taught the 250 women assembled before her in a sparsely decorated industrial space the basics of attracting their chief desires—which, for most of them, was a better and more meaningful career. The women in the audience soaked in how to find their one true passion and “pass tests” from the spiritual beyond. These tests can come in the form of subpar job offers or being rear-ended in traffic. But more important, the women learned that increasing their self-worth would draw in love, happiness, and a raise. Phillips’s presentation was a live version of the lessons she shares on her content platform To Be Magnetic, which sells on-demand manifestation workshops starting at $68.
“How many of you can raise your hands if you feel that you are deserving of what you want?” asked Phillips at the event. An overwhelming majority of hands shot up, and Phillips motioned as if she was counting them. “That’s a really beautiful number,” she cooed.
Following a lecture on establishing confidence to fish for rewards from the great beyond, Phillips proceeded with a Q&A. Participants stood up and stated their astrology sign before explaining their career dilemmas: Can my energy fuel my start-up’s success? How do I attract the right kind of clients? Is a disrespectful work colleague a test from the universe? Is my soul “settling” if I go on a reality TV show? Phillips wasn’t surprised by the intensity of their frustrations, noting they were experiencing Mercury retrograde. “You guys should have some shit going down right now,” she laughed.
Charismatic, attractive, and personable, Phillips comes across like a cool, more successful older sister. She is one of many female manifestation coaches reinventing the law of attraction—the belief that you attract what you focus on—for a new generation. Phillips spreads the philosophy that self-worth is the law of attraction and that we can manifest anything that’s in alignment with “our current state of subconscious worthiness.” Basically, you need to reprogram your subconscious—rewiring childhood trauma, fixing damaging perceptions, and the like—to break the mold of limiting beliefs.
Through live events, digital platforms, and podcasts, these teachers present a nondenominational spirituality that promises to work in their favor, like a heavenly personal advocate.
Manifestation holds that there’s a tangible connection between the mind and cosmic workings. Spiritual influencers’ messages of overcoming personal struggles hold that you need a belief in yourself since “the universe has your back.” That and with talk of modern-day issues—body image pressures, noncommittal boyfriends, sexist bosses—they’re instantly relatable.
Dressed like fashion bloggers, these new leaders speak of “calling in” unseen powers to materialize new homes, jobs, or maybe just that perfect pair of jeans. On the To Be Magnetic website, one happy customer detailed manifesting a discounted white Le Creuset tea kettle. Other leaders skew more ambitious, selling $2,000 money workshops that reportedly draw in tenfold the class fee, thereby offering their own spin on the prosperity gospel. Each influencer has their own tweak on the philosophy and the work required.
Many of the more famous manifestation coaches predominantly preach to a group that has their basic needs met, which inevitably sets the tone for the issues addressed. Although some have scholarship programs, it’s hard to imagine these experts delivering their advice to those living in poverty or war-torn countries. There are no Manifesters Without Borders. Followers, mostly women, are drawn to the idea that whatever good energy you put out into the world inevitably comes back to you. When I ask, however, whether the Jews in the Holocaust lacked the right energy to escape Nazi Germany, some seem legitimately stumped. “Huh, I didn’t think about that,” one college-aged manifester replied.
To be fair, manifestation does not entail only thinking good thoughts; the process involves determination, effort, and “co-creating” with the universe. Followers must put in hard work and make sacrifices to be worthy of divine abundance. Essentially, they have to get their lives in order. And Phillips, for one, does not gloss over trauma, racism, and abuse. Nor does she advocate controlling specific outcomes.* “We’re certainly very open about how much work has to be involved in this,” says Phillips. “It’s not a magic show and your life won’t change overnight.”
At times though, manifestation could also prove a blame-proof strategy: If you get something you wanted, you manifested it. If you didn’t, it just wasn’t meant to be. Or maybe you didn’t do enough on your end to produce the vision to fruition.
While manifestation might have its shortcomings (to be fair, which faith doesn’t?), there’s no denying people get real value out of it. Three years ago, a Californian named Heather was brutally attacked and held at gunpoint by a stranger. Overwhelmed by the experience, she rarely left the house for a year. Heather credits Phillips—in addition to a therapist—for empowering her to ultimately lead a more conscious, fulfilling life. In the last few years, she said she’s manifested her dream job, house, fiancée, even the exact diamond ring and wedding location she envisioned. Her new role as a senior consultant at a health company pays more, aligns with her values, and permits her to do what she always wanted—work from home.
“I would have taken this job before for less money but I have the confidence now to say no, I deserve more,” said Heather, who shared her story during the Q&A portion. She was so compelling that Phillips invited her on stage to co-host the rest of the evening. Later, Heather told me she manifested the stage debut, having pictured herself speaking to the audience. “Things just come naturally now because I’m more magnetic,” she mused. “I used to use the word ‘lucky’ but I don’t believe that anymore.” Phillips was touched that she gained yet another satisfied customer: “I genuinely believe that everybody is worthy of having what they want.”
Phillips treads lightly in her role, readily acknowledging that she is not a religious leader or guru. Instead she calls herself a “mold breaker.” Phillips says she reminds her audience, “I’m shoulder to shoulder with you doing this work.”
In the wellness world, manifestation joins a medley of other mystical trends that have grown as popular as detox diets. If New Age services were once a scattered industry of solo practitioners, outdated websites, and 1-800 numbers, modern offerings are light-years beyond the Miss Cleo of the nineties. You can now book an on-demand chat reading with a live astrologer. You don’t even need to speak to the seer: just text them a zodiacal inquiry.
There’s also ambiguous spiritual lingo wherein belief in one’s personal power takes on a nearly religious narrative. Social media influencers post nondenominational, ego-boosting affirmations such as “I am magical” and “the universe wants me to have the best,” which don’t align with any specific philosophy but add up to a holier version of the self-help industry. The messaging encompasses radical approval: each individual is special, powerful, and divine. We are all Beyoncé!
Influencers got the memo. Suddenly all the style bloggers, fashion founders, and tech stars—choice vocations of the late aughts—became wellness influencers, imparting their self-worth platitudes and yoga wear ensembles like the Dalai Lamas of pop psychology. With an emphasis on maximizing capabilities (à la Tony Robbins) with a sprinkling of fluid superhuman powers (“cosmic intelligence”), they are life coaches turned prophets. You can’t scroll through Instagram without these former fashionistas telling you to “trust in the universe,” all the while hawking protein collagen powders. Instead of Fashion Week or SXSW, they’re reporting from a retreat in Bali.
It’s not entirely surprising that the growth of wellness and the explosion of what were once considered “woo-woo” convictions have gone hand in hand—or that they are so intertwined. There’s plenty of research indicating the psychological benefits of believing in a higher power. Spiritual involvement has been shown to help individuals cope with stress and is associated with better mental health functioning (like being more optimistic).1 But this pillar of wellness has since expanded to better include crystals, tarot palm readings, aura photography, and a zillion astrology apps that divulge what Jupiter has to say about asking your boss for a promotion.
These beliefs and practices are certainly not new (as many were popularized during the counterculture movement of the 1960s). But they have since been tweaked and are available everywhere. Urban Outfitters hawks millennial-pink tarot card decks (“cute AF” reads the top review). Boutique fitness studios sell sage bundles to ward off “toxic energy.” Spas offer Reiki healers who can massage the bad juju out of your muscle knots. Women’s magazines treat these things like essential components of a healthy life. “We all need to take good care of ourselves,” reads an issue of Cosmopolitan. “And who understands what you *really* need better than you? Well, the stars.”
“Mystical services” grew 53 percent between 2005 and 2019 into a $2.2 billion industry. Roughly six in ten American adults believe in at least one New Age belief such as astrology or reincarnation, and 40 percent believe in psychics or that spiritual energy is hiding in physical objects.2 But exactly what kinds of solutions are the new New Agers seeking? A deeper look at manifestation and crystals reveals a great deal about the precise nature of our current spiritual quests. Unsurprisingly, as with the other areas of wellness, a common thread is the frantic attempt to regain control over that which we fear is no longer in our hands.
The law of attraction didn’t start with Madewell shoppers. The concept dates back to the nineteenth century’s New Thought movement, and it has seized American popularity at different points and in various flavors, incorporating health, wealth, personal development, you name it.
In the late 1800s, the spiritual pioneer Mary Baker Eddy founded Christian Science, a religion that combines Christianity with metaphysical healing. Pain and disease were all in the mind, she preached. Correct religious thinking could heal sickness. All that separated the afflicted from a cure were prayers and belief.
Hers was a countercultural movement. One of its precepts was that female intuition was better at tapping into divine power. It was an empowering message in a time when society considered women delicate and prone to illness. Their femininity—traditionally treated as a liability—became a sort of superpower. As a result, women made up a strong percentage of Christian Science adherents and leadership.3
The movement also had a darker side. Some believers shunned medical intervention for cancer, appendicitis, mushroom poisoning, contagious diseases, and diphtheria. Parents in the sect denied their children essential medical care. People died.
(Mark Twain penned a tale in which he sought the healing services of a Christian Scientist after falling off a cliff in the Alps and suffering several broken bones. He was, naturally, told his pain was but an illusion. When it came time to settle the bill, Twain noted, “I gave her an imaginary check, and now she is suing me for substantial dollars. It looks inconsistent.”)4
In time, religious leaders adopted the law of attraction to reimagine a God who badly wanted you to be flush with cash. After the Depression, the author Napoleon Hill used positive thinking to sell a vision of capitalist success with Think and Grow Rich. It even trickled down to children’s education, with an early-twentieth-century story about a small-time locomotive who willed his way into pulling heavier loads. In 1930, the publisher Platt & Munk released The Little Engine That Could, about a character who feverishly repeats “I think I can, I think I can,” thereby teaching America’s youth the treasured values of optimism and hard work. Yet no one ever stopped to consider whether the little engine should risk stress fractures by biting off more than he could choo.5
The law of attraction saw a reemergence in the mid-2000s with Oprah and Hollywood celebrities salivating over The Secret. The bestselling spirituality self-help book, which sold more than 30 million copies worldwide, claimed that positive thoughts can draw a bounty of enviable good things because the universe has a currency, and that currency is positive “energy.” Then, as always, the offshoots came. In 2010, Marianne Williamson, one of Oprah’s spiritual advisers, published a book that melded manifestation, naturally, with fat-trimming: A Course in Weight Loss: 21 Spiritual Lessons for Surrendering Your Weight Forever advised that “your perfect weight is coded into the natural patterns of your true self.” You just need to accept complete dependence on God. Then you can reconcile “your relationship with Not-Thin You.”6
Today, Jessie De Lowe, a manifestation coach and co-founder of the lifestyle site How You Glow, likens manifestation to life coaching. The former art therapist implores followers to take responsibility for all the issues in their lives thus far, then adopt healthier habits. “It’s not promising someone their life is not going to have challenges—in fact, it’s the opposite,” explains De Lowe. But if the stick is the taking of responsibility for one’s life, the carrot is that doing so will help you gain control of an existence that seems increasingly unmanageable.
The majority of De Lowe’s clients are young, female, and college-educated. Though they possess countless advantages, she describes an unsatisfied group gripped by peer competitiveness and unrealistic expectations fueled by social media. They aren’t comparing themselves to the millennial next door. They’re comparing themselves to start-up founders and the globe-trotting friends clogging their Instagram feed. “They feel inadequate, like they’re never where they should be [already],” says De Lowe.
Add an unpredictable job market, rampant employee disengagement, and tales of male-dominated workplaces, and it’s no wonder young women find themselves searching for ways to hack the universe. It’s an appealing concept for those raised to believe that if they follow certain steps, they could get what they want. They were led to trust in a meritocracy, that good hard work always wins. And that, of course, they were special, as told to them 1,001 times by their parents and kindergarten teachers.
Millennials had a hyperstructured upbringing that gave them a false sense of control, says the clinical psychologist Goali Saedi Bocci, author of The Millennial Mental Health Toolbox. Raised on happy Disney endings and American exceptionalism, they struggle with the anxiety of not getting what they were promised. “They grew up with the idea that if you want to get the best grades, you do the extra credit,” she told me. Apple-polishing millennials got straight As, went to college, then graduated into a recession and found themselves saddled with student debt. Those who secured good jobs later felt stifled by what they considered meaningless positions or weren’t adequately prepared for the mundanity of corporate life.
Workplace stress is particularly painful for a percentage of millennials who define themselves through their employment. “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” they were told (much to their grandparents’ confusion, who warned that work was to pay the bills). They were naively brought up to “follow your passion,” and they just did that. If Americans once clocked in and out at the office, today you’ll hear them speak of their life’s “calling” and their job as a “mission.” In that sense, their job becomes far more than a job—their heart and soul are poured into it. Work-life balance becomes impossible because the self and work are intertwined.
For those who are not living their calling, it’s a different sort of pressure—one in which you’re forced to endure hearing about cool start-up jobs while you draft legal documents. And if you failed to succeed, the American creed of meritocracy insinuates that you simply didn’t try hard enough—you weren’t passionate enough—despite a flawed and at times unfair employment market (or the loss of nearly 9 million jobs during the 2007–2009 recession). You believe you have only yourself to blame.
The San Francisco–based psychotherapist Tess Brigham sees midcareer patients trying to make sense as to why they can’t afford a down payment or why they’re still stuck in middle management. Manifestation dangles the promise of speeding up their career—tangible tactics to improve their chances—but also comfort in that it will all work out. “If you say the universe has a path for me, there’s something to hold on to,” Brigham told me.
Or, as Joseph Baker, an associate professor of sociology at East Tennessee State University and the editor of the academic journal Sociology of Religion, explains, there is a natural human tendency to impute purpose to our experiences, to interpret a larger plan in place. If we can’t find that framework of agency, we’ll create it ourselves: “What we do find pretty consistently is that when organized religion recedes the paranormal often fills that gap,” says Baker.
Manifesters essentially adopt a spiritual version of the growth mindset, the Stanford University psychologist Carol Dweck’s theory that one’s abilities can be cultivated through effort, dedication, and perseverance. Dweck’s research stresses that brains and talent are not the be-all and end-all, rather that optimistically putting in time and diligence leads to higher achievement. On the flip side, a fixed mindset is a belief that you lack the right traits, leading you to adopt a defeatist attitude that holds you can’t influence your future.
From this perspective, manifestation makes sense. Followers simply take a resilient can-do outlook on life—that how you view yourself can determine success. Most psychologists will tell you that you’re better off keeping your chin up and taking actionable steps to build the life you want. As one manifester told me, it’s about expelling negativity “to get shit done.”
Manifestation serves as a mix between self-care and self-help, according to manifestation expert and bestselling author Gabby Bernstein, a former nightlife publicist who now leads $1,999 online courses on clearing psychological blocks to increase magnetism. Bernstein readily admits “it’s hip to be spiritual,” but she also acknowledges a climate that bred a need for her messaging. “The collective feels out of control. People are traumatized … Millennials want a sense of security, but they also have the sense that I can do anything and create my reality. That belief system is actually what makes manifesting work.”
Positivity is beneficial, but some manifestation leaders teach their flock to block out the negativity that hampers their pursuit of unrealistic dreams. Simplified versions of manifestation propel the idea that we can all reach our potential to draw in success or riches. But that shouldn’t disregard structural, social, and irrefutable challenges. As Steve Salerno argues in his book SHAM: How the Self-Help Movement Made America Helpless, all of us can’t prosper in the free market. “In any competitive closed system, there must be a loser for every winner. By definition then, self-help cannot work for everyone, and the more competitive the realm, the more this is so. Two wonderfully optimistic women who both desire the same man or the same job cannot both succeed … [it] could conceivably help some of us achieve our goals. But not all of us.”7
The issue of how much we can truly control becomes even more readily apparent as manifesters attempt to conjure up larger gains: a rent-controlled apartment, a bigger bonus, or a romantic partner. In Facebook groups, some are downright frustrated and confused, lamenting unemployment or broken relationships. Some try to manifest better health or to heal diseases.
Nitika Chopra, an affable and upbeat Manhattanite, was besieged by pain when she was in her late twenties. She suffered from multiple chronic conditions that interfered with her work and social life. At times it was head-to-toe psoriasis. Other days it was psoriatic arthritis—a painful inflammation and swelling of the joints. So she turned to those who promised blessed relief from the agony: spiritual influencers.
Chopra started following and buying products from gurus like Deepak Chopra (no relation). She sat in a manifestation expert’s living room, soaking up the promise of positive thinking, which she took to believe could cure her medical conditions. At one manifestation meeting, Chopra divulged her excruciating pain, only to be scolded by an instructor who interrupted her with, “I’m going to stop you right there. I need you to take that negative language out of your mind. You are not sick, okay?”
“I was so impressionable,” reflects Chopra. “And I was so desperate. I thought, these people are all telling me that if I just believe I’m going to get a check in the mail and I just believe that I’m going to be healthy, then it’ll happen.” Looking back, she acknowledges how devastating and harmful it was. “It is the definition of gaslighting.”
The more Chopra listened to these experts, the sicker she became. Not only were her physical symptoms getting worse, but her mental health was on the decline. “I was constantly trying to fit myself into this world of ‘You should just be able to meditate twice a day, you should just be able to say these affirmations … And then you should be fixed.’”
Chopra was not “fixed.” Soon the pangs of failure started. She believed there was something broken with her thought process. In the ensuing months, Chopra berated herself if she ever felt negative or sad or uncomfortable. “[I’d] think, what’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just feel positively?” This continued for years, to the point where she avoided medication entirely, hoping to attract a healthier future. All the while, she suffered. Chopra couldn’t descend a flight of stairs without debilitating pain. Some nights she would scratch herself so hard her sheets were bloodied.
Chopra’s experience shows why manifesting health is a tricky issue that most gurus distance themselves from. (Probably because they’re also aware of something called a lawsuit.) Lacy Phillips readily admits she hasn’t figured out manifesting a medical recovery: “We can’t help you with that.” Phillips notes that manifestation teachers have a responsibility to be transparent. “This isn’t a cure-all,” she says.
It all came to a head for Chopra following the 2016 election. Amid the political chaos and “alternative facts,” Chopra decided to take a hard look at everything, including her wellness habits. If it wasn’t the truth, it just wasn’t gonna fly anymore. She realized that multiple complex factors account for our circumstances, and that thinking can’t overcome all of them. Shortly thereafter, manifestation got the boot, kicked right back to the universe’s return center.
Chopra ultimately founded Chronicon, a digital community for women with chronic illnesses—like Crohn’s disease, fibromyalgia, lupus, or endometriosis—to come together to share their pain without judgment or false promises. Most members have similar stories, having seen far too many doctors who didn’t believe their symptoms or gurus selling snake oil. It’s not so much “solving” anything for them as it is facilitating friendships. “You can tell us what is going on,” Chopra told me. “And we’ll be like, ‘Yes, girl. I was just dealing with that yesterday. I totally get you. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you.’”
There’s no harm in a growth mindset. It’s important to believe you can accomplish new tasks. But when that optimism is taken too far—when a growth mindset blinds you to obstacles (including very real medical ones)—problems arise. These new modes of spirituality can at times, if left unchecked, devolve into delusional thinking on steroids.
If manifesters take their ability to influence their lives with the utmost seriousness, crystal collectors have a lighter touch, if not any less of a belief that their practices guarantee positive outcomes.
I investigated the crystal craze for Fast Company after noticing that glistening rocks once better associated with covens and Stevie Nicks were flourishing in a massive mainstream business market. Crystals showed up everywhere: at yoga studios, in juice shops, on influencers’ social media accounts. In Malibu, some residents hand them out for Halloween. And like any trend worth its (mineral) salt, it hit Hollywood, fortifying a bastion of celebrity acolytes. Gwyneth Paltrow, Victoria Beckham, and Katy Perry publicly swore their allegiance to the stones. Adele even attributed her performance hiccups at the 2016 Grammy Awards to the fact that she’d lost her beloved totems. “I got some new crystals now and everything’s been going well,” she later assured fans.
I was interested in the financials, but more than anything, I was curious what people got out of crystals. Was it just an artistic appreciation for nature’s minerals? Or did they hold more religious weight?
This is how I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor of Colleen McCann’s Venice Beach home. Colleen is Goop’s in-house shaman and a self-described “spiritual influencer.” Blonde, fashionable, and smiley, the former fashion stylist resembles a young Goldie Hawn. McCann is booked months in advance for her services, for which she charges $100 to $1,500 per session. She sees predominantly young and female clients for garden-variety therapy sessions, and she might perform the occasional crystal-assisted exorcism. (“You never forget your first exorcism,” she said.)
But McCann’s specialty is using quartz, citrine, and other chunks of minerals for what she calls “intuitive business building.” With assistance from the great beyond, she helps CEOs, executives, and Silicon Beach professionals make decisions about their business just by, as she put it, “reading their energy.” She weighs in on everything from org charts to investment opportunities to redesigning company logos. “I may close my eyes and say, ‘Hey, you’re thinking of starting a new division,’ and they say, ‘How did you know that?’” McCann explained. “Or I’ll say, ‘I see a girl with red curly hair coming in—that’s the girl you need to hire.’”
Her loft was filled with crystals, many of which were organized into parallel lines to my left and right, as if I was stationed in the middle of a spiritual runway. McCann blew on multicolored stones and recited a blessing rooted in shamanism. She then closed her eyes and meditated as she listened to the spirits among us. But before she could foresee whether I’d ever land on a Forbes cover, she expressed concern. “What’s up with what you’re eating?” McCann asked me. “They say there’s something weird you’re doing every day at a certain time.” I confessed to my Sour Patch Kids consumption ritual. McCann nodded as if she and her ghostly helpers were already aware. (To be fair, she had a pretty good chance of predicting that any L.A. woman had an eating issue, so I wasn’t blown away.) As part of the $250 package I selected, my healer “prescribed” a few amethysts to control my sugar urges, then wished me luck in resisting my temptation.
My experience might inspire eye rolls and snickers, but for a growing number of consumers, crystals are no joke. McCann’s business is lucrative for a very simple reason: she sells solutions, much like the one she sold me to curb my sweet tooth. Whatever your problem is, there’s a crystal for that. Her book is called Crystal Rx, prescribing rocks to calm, energize, and heal everything from fatigue to a broken heart.
For McCann, the reason for surging crystal popularity is obvious. “What we’re doing right now as a people isn’t working,” she said. Our fraught political climate, work overload, and tech dependency leave people “sad, scared, or nervous.” She believes crystals can “help people get back on track.” The practice of just sitting down and touching an element that comes from the earth, she said, produces a positive, calming effect. And for the people building businesses around them, a pleasing ka-ching sound.
McCann isn’t the only one benefitting from the mining mania. I’ve reported on newly formed crystal galleries, which are like art galleries, drawing Silicon Valley honchos who buy hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of rare, five-foot-high crystals. One crystal e-commerce business watched business double with $88 “money magnet” bracelets that sold out whenever the financial market dipped. All echoed the same sentiment: Demand increases when people are anxious. Bad news means good business.
When I asked Colleen McCann if crystal therapy is just a case of the placebo effect, she was cagey, replying, “There are many ways to skin a cat.”8 Whatever crystals are or aren’t, these tools can be extremely powerful, and not something to be discounted. Women I interviewed say they can have a grounding effect. “It gives me something to focus on when I’m anxious,” said one who sleeps with crystals in her bed.
In a period of uncertainty, such spiritual beliefs can provide reassurance. They serve as a coping mechanism, where you can count on something when at the whims of an unfair, chaotic world. This proves both compelling and comforting, not unlike a TV Guide to the blessings or misfortune about to unfold. They’re also widely available.
People can easily join these belief systems because there’s a low barrier to entry, a far cry from in-depth study of a centuries-old book or lengthy conversion processes. No need to understand complex philosophies: to get started, one simply needs to feel ready to “transform” their life, then hop onto YouTube, Instagram, or TikTok, all flooded with twentysomething gurus.
It’s hard to tell how many spiritual seekers fully believe in what they’re adopting. Some find it fun and exotic, not unlike an interest in style fads. For Gen Z, the more untraditional, the more the social cachet, proving just how anti-establishment you are. That which is foreign and uncommon might seem more appealing than what’s available in their backyard.
Once I reported on Summit Series, an invite-only event series dubbed a “young TED meets Burning Man” or “Davos for millennials.” This community of start-up founders and successful professionals built their own utopia in the ski resort area of Eden, Utah, drawing entrepreneurs like Netflix CEO Reed Hastings, WeWork co-founder Miguel McKelvey, and others who could afford either to build a home or to pay the $2,000+ weekend attendance fee. It’s the type of place where you’ll see a Mercedes G-Class parked alongside a giant yurt, where high-powered networking commences during dynamic breath work classes.9 You meet people who think of themselves as spiritually inclined and “enlightened” capitalists, though they would never use the dreaded C word; they instead say they’re vehicles for change, or “creative disruptors.”
While I was there for a wellness-themed weekend, talk revolved around “influential astrologers” and manifesting investors. No fewer than three strangers asked what my meditation “practice” entailed. One even opened the conversation with the question, replacing the more traditional “So what do you do?” I responded truthfully: I don’t meditate. When I need to recenter myself, I open up a Jewish prayer book and recite the prayers I have repeated since childhood. Sometimes, I’ll channel my most treasured intentions when lighting the Sabbath candles on a Friday night. That, I explained, was my version of mindfulness.
One looked at me like I just admitted to marrying my dog. Another nervously chuckled and quickly changed the topic. The third didn’t respond for five seconds, carefully weighing his response. “I really don’t know what to say to that,” he finally offered, slowly removing his Warby Parker sunglasses. “That’s different.”
I had committed a taboo. I had, in their eyes, pledged allegiance to a backward regime, to that which they had so independently rejected. I had veered from the now acceptable answers within wellness groupthink, that which prizes the new and unique and the exotic. There I was expressing, of all things, an acceptance of the traditional—of religion. I should have just as soon introduced myself as “basic.”
I’m not insinuating that uniqueness is the driving force, just that some truly dislike organized religion. Many people take their newly adopted spirituality quite seriously, including those who plan trips and base life decisions around their horoscope. On Twitter, astrology followers consider the ancient art a useful tool for self-knowledge, “an external thing [to] confirm something you already knew about yourself.” Tarot helps individuals tap their intuition and analyze their life path. (Some say it’s cheaper than therapy.) For the anxious, astrologers offer solace when life feels too complicated—and a rare occasion when they get sole attention. As one Gen Zer tweeted, “It may not be real but it’s comforting. [To] have someone tell me that there’s always something positive coming makes me feel okay.”
Manifestation, crystals, and a host of other spiritual initiatives require individuals to reflect, to retreat from volatile emotions, and instead focus on their innermost needs. Believers rely on the universe and tarot cards for supernatural guidance or influence—to change the hand life deals them. It sounds a lot like religion, frankly. So why aren’t these people turning to more traditional faith when they want some help? Why aren’t they just going to church when they want to light up their soul?
Because the big three monotheist traditions, as they’ll tell you, just ain’t cutting it.
Flashback: When Astrology Went to the White House
It was lightly raining in 1952 when a Southern California housewife named Jeane Dixon entered the historic St. Matthew’s Cathedral in Washington, D.C. She prepared to kneel before a statue of the Virgin Mary when suddenly, she was overcome by a vision. Dixon saw the White House in its pristine glory, the majestic white compound across a lush green lawn. The numerals 1960 formed above the building like skywriting. Then slowly, the numbers emitted a dark cloud dripping down “like chocolate frosting on a cake,” quickly reaching the bottom before a still man. He was young, tall, light-eyed, and had a head of thick brown hair. A heavenly spirit insinuated that he was a Democrat. And that a violent death awaited him.10 “God showed it to me,” she would later recall.11
Four years later, Dixon reportedly told Parade magazine that a Democratic president elected in 1960 would be assassinated. The disturbing prediction wasn’t taken seriously, but following President Kennedy’s assassination, word of Dixon’s prophetic prowess spread, catapulting her to national fame. She soon snagged a regular seat inside the very same house she once saw in her visions.
Nicknamed “the seeress of Washington,” Dixon carried her crystal ball straight into the oval office. Richard Nixon sought Dixon’s advice on future terrorist plots following the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre in which a Palestinian terrorist group kidnapped and killed nine Israeli athletes. White House tapes confirm that Dixon counseled the president on numerous issues, spanning the Panama Canal, nuclear arms talks, and even the Watergate scandal.12
Dixon eventually became a household name with a syndicated newspaper astrology column, thus offering an air of legitimacy to her spiritual talent. Her biography, A Gift of Prophecy, sold more than 3 million copies. But Dixon wasn’t just interested in politics and fame. During the World War II era, she visited Navy hospitals and servicemen parties, counseling Army amputees who had given up on any semblance of normal life. Dixon supplied handicapped veterans with the confidence to keep going, to put faith in better days ahead. She gave them hope.13
Dixon got some forecasts right, such as her prediction that a pope would be harmed in the twentieth century and that Oprah, who consulted with her in 1977, would enjoy great success. But many more of her predictions were wrong—among them, that the Soviets would be the first to put a man on the moon, that World War III would erupt in 1958, and that a cure for cancer would be found by 1967.
Dixon also claimed the world would end by 2020.
Pop culture mostly forgot Dixon, but her name lives on in academic circles. The mathematician John Allen Paulos coined the term “the Jeane Dixon effect,” which refers to the psychological tendency to remember successful predictions while ignoring the far more frequent failures—which helps explain the prevalence of paranormal beliefs.14
In 1997, Dixon passed away from a cardiac arrest. It is rumored that the last words on her deathbed were “I knew this would happen.”
“The spiritual wisdom of the ages is openly accessible as never before, and we are free to craft our own spiritual lives,” writes Krista Tippett in her bestselling book, Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living. The author and host of the popular radio program On Being says she has no idea what religion will look like a century from now, “but the evolution of faith will change us all.”15
Tippett soared to stardom for her spiritual investigative work, calling on listeners to explore the meaning of life during their morning commute. In her radio program and podcast—downloaded more than 350 million times—the gentle, folksy host takes on a soft inquisitiveness that mixes Mr. Rogers with Meredith Vieira, if not the occasional motivation of Oprah. Tippett asks big questions of celebrities, politicians, and thinkers surrounding faith, humanity, and purpose. Her show attempts to answer: What does it mean to be human? How do we want to live? She gets attention. In 2013, President Obama awarded Tippett a National Humanities Medal for “embracing complexity” through hundreds of conversations about faith.
Tippett started her radio program in the years following 9/11, a period in which she observed a societal pull to explore deeper issues but with few available outlets. The world had changed, and so had everyone’s priorities. She is among a long roster of talent ushering in a new realm of spiritual life sparked by the “seekers” of the sixties. Each of them boasts their own specialty: the podcaster Brené Brown stresses vulnerability, the bestselling author Glennon Doyle concentrates on feelings, The Power of Now author Eckhart Tolle has a Buddhist-slash-mystical approach, and the onetime presidential candidate Marianne Williamson preaches the power of love.
Though their philosophies differ, all echo an “awakening”—a brave journey of inner work that shapes meaning in a world that increasingly divests from former conventional paths to purpose. For the spiritually aimless, they offer up a spiritual life that transcends labels, rules, or hard distinctions. Living an examined, ethical life, they say, does not require an overarching organization. Values are not restricted to orthodoxy.
Tippett grew up with Southern Baptist parents in Oklahoma. Her grandfather was a Southern Baptist evangelist preacher. But even though she too felt spiritual and graduated from divinity school, she struggled with inflexible, cast-iron religious tenets. How could, she wondered, “every Catholic and Jew, every atheist in China and every northern Baptist in Chicago, for that matter—every non–Southern Baptist—be damned?” In a pluralistic and open society, it didn’t sit right.16
“We are among the first peoples in human history who do not broadly inherit religious identity as a given, a matter of kin and tribe, like hair color and hometown,” writes Tippett, writing in a tone that doesn’t sound the alarm so much as open the door. “But the fluidity of this—the possibility of choice that arises, the ability to craft and discern one’s own spiritual bearings—is not leading to the decline of spiritual life but its revival.”17
Tippett’s moderate, rational, intellectual doctrine appeals to a growing number of Americans disenchanted with the God of their parents, be it for political or personal reasons. Some women reject organized religion for equity or bodily autonomy reasons. Parents recoil after reading of multiple sexual abuse scandals. Young progressives object to any institution that does not welcome their LGBTQ brethren. Some liberals take issue with what they consider objectionable politics or party affiliations.
Many Gen Xers and millennials never really grew up with a strong faith in the first place. They showed up once a year for services to blankly stare into the distance in boredom. Christmas meant Santa and matching pajamas, with Jesus pushed to the periphery. Hanukkah constituted maybe one night of candle-lighting and an Adam Sandler song, though few could tell you the history of the holiday. For most secularized millennials, their connection to a priest, rabbi, or imam factors only into big milestones like a wedding, thereby equating a religious leader with just another hired vendor. Florist, caterer, pastor …
Since 1990, when just 8 percent of Americans said they had no religion, the abandonment of organized faith has accelerated.† Four out of ten American millennials now identify as religiously unaffiliated, identifying more with a Harry Potter house than a Catholic saint. Called “nones,” they constitute the fastest-growing religious demographic. And they are well represented among highly educated and politically liberal women; according to a Pew Research Center survey, “nones” among women rose by 10 percentage points between 2009 and 2019.18
To give an idea of Americans’ shifting views—in 1998, a Wall Street Journal and NBC News survey asked Americans which values they most valued. The majority cited hard work, patriotism, commitment to religion, and having children. In 2019, the same outlets asked the same question, but got different results: patriotism dropped 9 percentage points, religion was down 12 points, and having kids took a 16-point beating.19
Religion lost its stature because people feel free to choose alternatives that accomplish similar goals. Which is partially why a little less than half of Americans today belong to a church, mosque, or synagogue—down from 70 percent in 1999, according to a 2020 Gallup poll.20
Perhaps most telling, the current president of the Harvard Chaplains, Greg Epstein, does not subscribe to any one religion. He doesn’t necessarily even look to any higher power. He is a humanist who penned a book titled Good Without God. “We don’t look to a god for answers,” Epstein told the New York Times. “We are each other’s answers.” This tracks with the wide market of spiritual suppliers who forgo a literal God in favor of human connection and emotional satisfaction, like feeling welcomed, happy, appreciated, or nurtured. The sociologist of religion Wade Clark Roof put it best when he wrote, “more and more Americans are making religious decisions on the basis of their feelings.”21
And yet, however independent we humans believe ourselves to be, we still crave a universal order to the chaos. One of many reasons people historically turned to religion was because it was seemingly in their best interests. When limited by our mortal power, humans—with our imaginative, narrative skills—find creative ways to reassert it. In his book Religion: What It Is, How It Works, and Why It Matters, the sociologist and University of Notre Dame professor Christian Smith defines religion as both a belief and a set of practices to connect with superhuman powers that can help people avoid misfortune and garner good things. That’s not the sole reason religion finds audiences—people also endeavor to make sense of their lives—but it’s one of the strongest.
That’s why the overwhelming majority of Americans—90 percent, in fact—are not becoming atheists. Atheism, in our typically optimistic society, feels too final. Too negative. A real Debbie Downer. Americans want to believe in something. More than 50 percent believe in God as depicted in the Bible, but 33 percent believe “in another type of higher power or spiritual force,” according to a Pew Research Center survey. Maybe it’s not King Triton flanked by angels on a bed of clouds, but nearly half of U.S. adults believe that God or some other cosmic puppet master is in charge of what happens to them. Two-thirds think the Almighty goes out of his (or her) way to reward them.22
Universally, women are more religious than men.23 Christian Smith suggests this is because women are more likely to be aware of their vulnerabilities and therefore seek additional resources, including those of the superhuman. Women face more violence, discrimination, and poverty, so they’re more inclined to prepare strategies to confront bad situations. It’s the same reason why some in lower socioeconomic levels are more religious; they objectively need more help.24
Organized religion may no longer hold the same authority, but the quest for spirituality is alive and well—on podcasts if not in SoulCycle studios. As Oprah told Stanford University students in a 2015 graduation speech, “I’m not telling you what to believe or who to believe, or what to call it. But there is no full life, no fulfilled or meaningful, sustainably joyful life without a connection to the spirit. You must have a spiritual practice.”25
In 2020, “focusing on spiritual growth” made its way into Americans’ most popular New Year’s resolutions.26 That focus skyrocketed at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, since, as always, a crisis awakens religious fervor. One survey found that nearly one-quarter of American adults reported their faith had strengthened amid all that sourdough bread baking. What did the pandemic mean? Was this God or the universe sending a message? How do you make sense of all the deaths?
But in much the same way that millennials prefer their tech or sneakers, they want their faith customized—a curated reflection of who they think they are. They mix and match a privatized, pluralistic assembly of traditions, grabbing shamanism here and Buddhism Lite over there, with a touch of cultural Judaism for good measure. Islamic symbols and zodiac charts live side by side in equal coexistence, proving one doesn’t need to fully ditch one to latch on to the other. “There’s sort of been this liminal in-between position where they’re outside of organized religion, but interested in religious and spiritual pursuits,” explains the sociology professor Joseph Baker.
Bit by bit, a new generation stitches together an eclectic patchwork of practices that supplies them what they sorely lack in modern American culture: guidance, meaning, and a place to belong in a fractured society. A context to shape their eighty-plus years on this Earth. These are things religion offered, but faced with a deficit, they now need to find new sources to frame their standing in the world. If mankind once fasted on a mountaintop to appeal to a higher power, so too can the modern woman flank herself with crystals to summon good energy before a work presentation. And if not with a spiritual alternative, people might venture out to other tightly held ideologies, finding religious convictions in nationalism, identity-based movements, social justice, or, yes, even health—all of which can offer purpose and structure. America is a deeply religious country. As Smith explains, “if religion goes away, at least in this culture, it’s going to have to be substituted with other things.”
Is believing in manifestation more or less rational than belief in Jesus? Is meditating the same as saying a prayer? That’s not the point. (Honestly, very little of what mankind holds religious contains hard evidence.) The point is that people choose it. They get to redefine their faith in a way that feels far more authentic to them. As one college student told me of her newfound conversion to manifestation and crystals, “I’m on my own: if I don’t like something, I don’t have to practice it.”
But in the ongoing quest to nail down the right kind of faith, when do you know that you hit upon the right one? How do you decide what propels self-growth? There’s no easy answer. If you discard traditional faiths, you still have to wade through a marketplace of gurus. Some are more honest than others. While Krista Tippett and Brené Brown sincerely aim to forge new paths in spiritual engagement, other influencers are ready to twist faith into something that isn’t all that different from what people were fleeing in organized religion. It comes down to the leader in question, and what people are specifically searching for.
Which raises some issues: What if in seeking a solution to their problems people are actually aggravating them?
In 2018, the trend forecasting group WGSN declared that “spirituality is the new luxury.”27 And it sure was apparent.
Columbia Business School offered a certificate in spiritual entrepreneurship. Instagram saw a rush of “purpose-driven soulpreneurs” (chakra beads on top, Lululemon leggings on the bottom) hawking pricey Tulum vacations. Then Amazon Prime’s newsletter started sending monthly shopping horoscopes to its members, aligning specific product suggestions to the stars. This is how I found out that communication is reportedly quite hard for Geminis in April, so they ought to practice giving and taking feedback with … an Amazon Alexa.
To put it crudely, there’s money in selling to your soul. Not that it’s anything entirely new: many religions also try to sell you something (whether it blatantly has a visible price tag is another story). The difference is that spiritual wellness, as marketed today, is easily digestible, entertaining, and often dolled up in memes or pastel-hued branding. It sure helps that tarot cards and crystals are instantly Instagrammable. (A communion wafer, meanwhile, leaves a bit to be desired in the aesthetics department.) Better yet: it promises super-fast results.
Products like crystal facial rollers are now sold at Anthropologie. These $28 rose quartz beauty accessories claim to encourage “a renewed sense of self,” help “aid in the detoxification of your body,” and promote a sense of “connection to the universe.” That such products lack clear clinical evidence doesn’t mean we should completely discard them as spiritual tools, though retailers should not suggest health benefits. (A conflation between spiritual well-being and health crosses the line. By claiming physical health benefits, we therefore put the wellness bar quite low—at the unscientific level.)
Tarot card sets and crystals are just a few of many spiritual objects sold at popular retailers. Urban Outfitters sold smudge kits (a sacred Native American practice), while Sephora planned a $42 “starter witch kit.” But the idea of purchasing and picking only what you want from different faiths, like some sort of spiritual Sizzler buffet, can also be a way to avoid pricklier issues like a faith’s controversial beliefs and instead select just the fun, self-serving parts. Very few seem to pick the more communal aspects, like service, charity, and responsibility. Or it divorces an ancient tradition from its larger context or wisdom to pulverize it down to … athletic yoga.
The new wellness marketplace caters to self-oriented spirituality. On Instagram, spiritual influencers encourage people to “celebrate” themselves and seek a never-ending journey of self-love with few calls for humility or consideration of others. These posts contradict themselves in that they stress constant self-work, then proclaim we’re perfect as we are. “Never apologize for who you are,” they impart, but then demand, “become the best version of yourself.” Remarkably, for all of the influencers’ talk of empowerment, they encourage you to rely on them, because repeat business pays the bills. Workshops, crystal kits, and horoscope subscriptions are codependency with a price point.
Worse, these spiritual concepts can serve as a hall pass to do whatever the hell you want because self-love is your actual God. Inconsiderate behavior like flakiness is excused in the name of “listening to intuition.” Harsh feedback becomes “releasing bad energy.” “Don’t feel guilty for doing what’s best for you,” reads an Instagram post posing as spiritual advice. “Dismiss what no longer serves your soul,” advises another. College professors tell me of students who manipulate the zodiac like a mental health diagnosis. How can they be expected to accept criticism on their essays when they’re a Pisces, known for being sensitive? This is who I am, they argue.
Modern spirituality has been a refuge for those alienated by organized religion, most notably those ostracized by it and even individuals who lack the money to participate in certain religious lifestyles. But these belief systems also have their blind spots: self-exploration can devolve into self-centeredness if left unchecked. Conversations revolve around how some life force is always sending signs—in dreams, through Netflix algorithm recommendations, or via Bumble flirtations. The universe, as Regina George would say, is obsessed with these people. And nothing is more important than their needs. That’s what it sometimes comes down to: self-love, self-compassion, self-improvement. The self.
Also, as the famed social scientist Robert Putnam wrote, privatized religion might feel more psychologically fulfilling “but it embodies less social capital.” As people surf from practice to practice, they might be less committed to a specific community and less inclined to be meaningfully involved over long periods of time. That’s likely because new denominations have been “directed inward rather than outward.”28
Not to mention, when everyone has their own mix of practices that shape them, “it’s very rare that you get a fullness of experience—of community—because everything is somewhat itemized or bite-sized,” says Casper ter Kuile, a Harvard Divinity School fellow and the author of The Power of Ritual. That might have unintended effects. “I think that’s what contributes to this sense of cosmic loneliness—that sense that nothing fits completely, like something is always missing.”
Wellness—real wellness—emphasizes communal well-being and social support (not to mention, reasonable expectations about the future) to thrive. But as religious tradition eroded, so did its focus on communal unity, replaced with striving for capitalist success and emotional soothing. We seem far more focused on feeling good, seeking acceptance, and dwelling on our innermost lives.
If you are only concerned for yourself, is there room left for others?
Too often, one might choose self-serving spirituality because that’s human nature. If deciding between a practice that demands real self-examination, communal sacrifice, intellectual study, and giving back or one that lets you hustle your way to prosperity, you might just choose the latter. You are busy, stressed, and overwhelmed as it is anyway. Why not pick that which suits your immediate needs?
Again, it’s not that traditional religions are exempt from similar issues. They too can breed egotistical characters or self-centered behavior. But spirituality alternatives that focus on success, consumerism, and narcissism create their own meaning crisis. Now some turn to belief systems that seem to fixate on those exact things, in an almost circular cycle of pressure. Or we lean in to a spirituality-lite that argues everything we need stems from me, myself, and I: scribble in your gratitude journal, concentrate on manifesting, squeeze your crystals … they all are done alone, in the privacy of one’s home.
When a family member dies, crystals do not offer a communal ritual, nor does manifestation soothe collective grief or solidify memorial rites. Belief is one part of the equation. But we can’t just prioritize the self, because that puts us back where we started: unwell.