The Spiritual IT-Girl Industrial Complex

Dear "Healed Nervous System" Girl,

You’re the poster child of a cult that doesn’t know it’s a cult.

You call yourself “high-achieving.” You sip collagen matcha lattes like they’re holy water. You post reels of your morning routine like it’s salvation. But underneath it all—you look so fucking tired.

You parade your spreadsheets and green juice like talismans against the void, but that void? It’s leaking through your perfectly curated aesthetic. You think your nervous system is healed but really, it’s just distracted. Stimmed into submission by productivity porn and aesthetic dopamine hits.

You say wealth is health—as if healing can be bought. As if Gucci loafers and a high cortisol tolerance are enlightenment. As if the highest evolution of womanhood is becoming a CEO in a sports bra.

You’re not liberated.

You’re just self-managed.

You’re not free—you’re well branded.

You’ve made healing into a hustle. You’ve turned self-love into a side gig. You talk about nervous system regulation like it’s a Flex Seal commercial—slap a cold plunge on that abandonment wound and call it integrated. But real healing? Real healing wrecks you. It doesn’t get 7K saves on instagram. And it certainly doesn’t purchase a following. It gets you face-down in the dark night of the soul, sobbing to music you’d never dare add to a “High Vibes Only” playlist.

You’re out here selling spiritual capitalism in a skims wrap dress.

And I’m sorry—but your “healed feminine” energy?

It’s just unprocessed trauma wearing a perfume sample from Sephora.

It’s control issues rebranded as “boundaries.”

It’s narcissism cosplaying as self-worth.

And babe—I see it. All of it.

Because I was you once.

I also thought I could outsmart suffering.

That I could alchemize my pain with productivity.

That I could schedule my way into safety.

But guess what?

Healing doesn’t look like you “winning.”

It looks like you cracking open.

It looks like you weeping in the middle of your goals.

It looks like you burning down your whole life because you realized it was built to please someone else’s god.

This obsession with the “high-achieving woman”?

It’s just patriarchy in yoga pants.

It’s hustle culture with a Yoni steam.

It’s the Wounded Masculine playing dress-up as a divine feminine—and it’s killing us softly with every filtered affirmation and trauma-informed sales funnel.

You are not your brand.

You are not your breath work.

You are not the sum of your LinkedIn bio, trauma toolkit, or top-shelf mushroom tincture.

So here’s the real flex:

Let the empire fall.

Let the healing be ugly.

Let the nervous system shake.

Let your soul sob in the shower without documenting it.

Because this “healed woman” thing? It’s not a performance. It’s not a personal brand. It’s a funeral—for the version of you that thought being palatable was the same as being loved.

I don’t want your “soft life” if it’s just code for self-abandonment with a prettier font.

I don't want your spreadsheets of success if they cost you your actual aliveness.

I want your shadow at the dinner table.

I want the woman underneath the clickbait and the cold plunges.

I want you—raw, ruined, radiant in your refusal to fake it one more fucking day.

So please.

Put down the turmeric.

Stop hash tagging your healing.

And start listening to the part of you that’s still wailing in the basement.

Because she is the one who holds the key.

And she’s not interested in going viral.

She’s interested in being real.

With love from the underworld,

—A Woman Who Let Herself Break Without Monetizing It.