By Dr. Liora Watterson
At dawn, some rise not to bells but to phone alarms, their first action not prayer but hydration. A glass of water, a handful of supplements, and a five-minute meditation session on a glowing screen. The day begins with ritual. And though its symbols are stripped of incense and hymnal, its logic is uncannily familiar. Our modern pursuit of wellness often reproduces the cadence of devotion: a set of acts repeated with reverence, promising purification, transformation, even salvation.
The Ritual Grammar of Wellness
In the ancient world, prayer was less about belief than practice. To chant a psalm, to kneel at specific intervals, to fast on appointed days — these were bodily rhythms as much as spiritual acts. Today, fitness trackers and nutrition logs carry a similar grammar. The Fitbit buzzes at the wrist like a call to prayer; calorie counts become a new form of abstinence. We mark the passage of time not by feast days, but by “leg days.” Our worthiness is measured not in piety, but in steps.
This is not coincidence. Ritual, whether religious or secular, thrives on repetition, measurement, and the promise that discipline reveals meaning. The wellness industry has quietly inherited these logics, selling not just products but systems of practice that order life with near-liturgical precision.
Penance in Calories and Sweat
The ancients confessed sin; we log dietary “cheats.” Monastic fasts sought purification; intermittent fasting echoes the same. High-intensity workouts, framed as penance for indulgence, replay the logic of atonement: through suffering, we are made clean. When the body aches, we believe it is working, much as monks believed the sting of hunger drew them nearer to God.
These echoes do not mean that the gym is a cathedral, nor that wellness is false because it resembles faith. Rather, they suggest that the human search for order and transcendence finds expression wherever it can. If the divine once structured how we ate and moved, the quantified self now takes up the role.
Sanctuaries Without Altars
Consider the spaces themselves. Yoga studios dimmed with candles; spin classes with pounding music and collective exertion; mindfulness apps with daily reminders that resemble the canonical hours. These are sanctuaries without altars, yet they cultivate community, discipline, and awe. They offer participants not just health but belonging, the sense that one’s body is aligned with some larger, more enduring rhythm.
The paradox, of course, is that many wellness practices claim to be purely secular, grounded in science and optimization. Yet the lived experience tells another story. The rituals feel ancient because they enact the same human longing: to tame chaos, to sanctify time, to believe that through regular acts the self may be remade.
A Mirror of Our Desires
We should not dismiss the analogy as trivial. If wellness is modern liturgy, it reveals something profound: that in the absence of shared religious frameworks, we continue to construct meaning through the body. Our smartwatches may not absolve us, but they structure our days like a rosary once did. Our diets may not grant salvation, but they hold out the promise of renewal.
In this sense, the wellness movement is not an escape from ritual life but its continuation. We remain liturgical creatures, even when our prayers are measured in heart rate variability. The temple is the body, and the worship is daily.
