A few weeks ago, I posted a photo on Instagram of my morning routine. Yoga on the deck, green smoothie, journal open beside me. The Brisbane sunrise doing its thing in the background.

A follower sent me a message: “Must be nice to have time for all that.”

My first reaction was defensive. I wanted to explain that I wake up early, that I’ve worked hard to build this into my life, that anyone could do it if they prioritised it.

But I stopped myself. Because she was right. It is nice. And the reality is that my ability to have a calm morning routine is not just about discipline or priorities. It’s about privilege.

And I think the wellness industry needs to get much more honest about that.

The Invisible Scaffolding

My morning routine is possible because of a series of structural advantages I rarely think about:

I own my time. As a self-employed yoga instructor and writer, I set my own schedule. I don’t work night shifts. I don’t have a two-hour commute.

I can afford good food. My fridge is full of fresh produce because I have the income and the proximity to shops that stock it.

I have a safe, quiet home. I can meditate because my environment allows it. There’s no noise, no overcrowding, no threat.

I don’t have caring responsibilities that consume my mornings. No kids to get ready for school. No elderly parent who needs help getting dressed.

I have a body that cooperates. My yoga practice is possible because I’m able-bodied and relatively healthy. That’s not earned — it’s luck.

None of this diminishes the value of what I do. But it does mean I need to be honest about the context in which I do it.

The “Self-Care Is a Choice” Myth

The wellness industry loves to frame health as a personal choice. Eat better. Move more. Meditate. Prioritise sleep. Reduce stress.

And for people with the resources, time, and stability to follow that advice, it works. But for millions of Australians, the barriers to basic wellbeing are structural, not motivational.

Consider the facts:

• One in eight Australian households experienced food insecurity in the past year, according to Foodbank Australia. It’s hard to eat a diverse, plant-rich diet when you’re choosing between fresh vegetables and electricity.

• Shift workers — who make up roughly 16% of the Australian workforce — have significantly higher rates of sleep disorders, cardiovascular disease, and mental health conditions. Their schedules are set by employers, not personal preference.

• First Nations Australians face a life expectancy gap of approximately eight years compared to non-Indigenous Australians. That gap is driven by systemic factors including healthcare access, intergenerational trauma, racism, and socioeconomic disadvantage.

• People with disabilities often face significant barriers to physical activity, including inaccessible facilities, lack of adaptive programs, and the sheer exhaustion of navigating a world not designed for them.

• Renters in insecure housing — increasingly common in Australia’s brutal rental market — experience chronic stress that no amount of breathwork can resolve.

Telling these people to “just prioritise self-care” isn’t just unhelpful. It’s insulting.

What Wellness Creators Owe Their Audiences

I’m including myself in this critique. As someone with a platform in the wellness space, I think we owe our audiences a few things:

Honesty about our circumstances. When I share wellness advice, I should be transparent about the conditions that make it possible for me. Not to perform humility, but because context matters. My advice is shaped by my life, and my life is not universal.

Structural awareness. Good wellness content should acknowledge that individual habits exist within systems. You can have a perfect morning routine and still be ground down by an underfunded healthcare system, workplace exploitation, or housing insecurity.

Accessibility. Not every wellness practice requires a $40 yoga class, a $200 supplement stack, or a $3,000 retreat. The most evidence-based wellbeing practices — walking, breathing, sleeping, connecting with others — are free. We should centre those.

Advocacy. If we genuinely care about people’s wellbeing, we should care about the conditions that shape it. That means advocating for things like universal healthcare, liveable wages, affordable housing, and workplace protections — not just better smoothie recipes.

The Tension I Live With

I’m not going to pretend I’ve resolved this tension in my own work. I still post about my morning routine. I still recommend practices that require time, space, and stability.

But I’m trying to hold two things at once: the genuine value of wellness practices for those who can access them, and the recognition that access is not evenly distributed.

I think about my follower’s message often. “Must be nice.”

It is nice. And I want to live in a world where more people have access to that niceness — not because they worked harder or made better choices, but because the systems around them actually supported their wellbeing.

What You Can Do

If you’re someone with wellness privilege — and if you’re reading a blog post about mindfulness on a weekday, you probably are — here are some ways to use it thoughtfully:

Support organisations that make wellness accessible. Community yoga programs, men’s sheds, free counselling services, food banks. These are the frontlines of public wellbeing.

Check your assumptions. Before offering wellness advice to someone, consider whether they have the conditions to follow it. Sometimes the most supportive thing you can do is practical — a meal, a lift to an appointment, an hour of babysitting.

Advocate for structural change. Write to your MP about mental health funding. Support campaigns for better working conditions. Vote with wellbeing in mind.

Practice humility. Your wellness journey is shaped by your circumstances. So is everyone else’s.

This isn’t about guilt. It’s about honesty. And in the wellness space, honesty might be the most radical practice of all.