Is it Real Community or Just a Good Vibes Only Scene?
The smiling receptionist greets me with sparkling eyes and a hand gently pressed to her heart: “Welcome to Yoni Community,” she sings. She hands me a branded goody bag—tampons in soft neutral tones, organic condoms in compostable paper, and a discount code for ethically sourced hot water bottles. Above her, a neon sign glows: Your Cervix. Your Power.
Everyone’s sitting cross-legged on meditation cushions instead of chairs, sipping lotus flower tea blessed by mermaids from biodegradable cups. A soft “Womb Wisdom” playlist drifts through the space—wind chimes, ocean waves, and the occasional whisper of the word release.
In the corner, a small merch table displays rose quartz yoni eggs and crystals shaped like uteruses next to affirmation cards that read things like Unleash Your Pelvic Light. Someone whispers there’s a pop-up sound bath happening in exam room three.
Wouldn’t this be a real wellness experience ? But instead, I get this…
The receptionist at my actual gynecologist’s office is more of a mood ring than a singing angel – switching from maple syrupy sweetness to sharp impatience faster than one can say “let go.” The waiting room smells like a mix of stale coffee and institutional cleaning products, with plastic flowers doing their best impression of life. The chairs seem to be designed to actively discourage comfort. No cushy cushions, no scented candles, no “womb wisdom” playlist. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of carpets from 1951, and the occasional cough echoing off linoleum walls.
While I sat in that waiting room, listening to a tense exchange between the receptionist and a clearly unsatisfied client, I found myself thinking. I was waiting for the gynecologist—whose warmth and kindness only surface beyond the closed doors, past the dragon-like receptionist and the spiky walls of a soulless building.
In contrast, behind shiny facades in “healing spaces” often hides a carefully manufactured ambiance mistaken for spirituality. A veneer of vibe that substitutes for the messy, difficult, and deeply human work of true connection and care. Recent conversations with friends echoed in my mind as I began to reflect on what we now call “community spaces”—what they promise and what they actually deliver.
These days, everything is a community. You and 105 strangers doing hip circles under a disco ball to the sound of ambient whale calls qualify as a community. A WhatsApp group for left-handed, plant-based Scorpios is a community. You know, everyone coming together for 5 minutes now is a community. The term is so overused, it’s like a piece of broccoli cooked on full heat for an hour: shapeless, sad, and barely recognizable as what it once was.
Once the term community got picked up not only by boomers who discovered Facebook but also by capitalism, it was game over. The soul left the body.
There have been multiple BIPOC community events lately. Some I attended, others I declined. Not just because I’m tired in the evenings and would rather listen to Mediterranean crime fiction than drive through the city... although that’s part of it. The deeper reason is that I’ve developed an allergic reaction to a specific kind of “community” event. You know what I mean. The glossy events sponsored by Lululemon or Nike or whatever brand, with language that talks about “wellness” but is really grooming you for brand loyalty and diversity tokenism. These brands have hopped on the trend train of “diversity” without dismantling their own racism and supremacy, profiting off the emotional hunger for visibility while selling their products with the bestseller buzzword “empowerment.” Even worse is the calculated fetishization of the term BIPOC. Add yoga or any other wellness technique that’s trending, throw in a few goody bags and voilà: a lifestyle event where neocolonialism gets to wear pastel beige yoga pants and call itself “healing community.”
I’m allergic to all of it. And folks in the industry know it.
This is one of many reasons I walked away from the yoga and healing world professionally (for now). Because doing this work consistently without brand sponsorships or institutional support, is burn out material. It requires an almost absurd level of willpower to keep going when your decolonial approach isn’t just unwelcome—it’s actively avoided. A friend recently told me: “Oh no, but what happens if all the good people who stand for this work leave?” She’s an actress with a decolonial approach, and apparently, in her field too, people leave because they’re exhausted by structural challenges.
Anyway, my headline owes you an answer… the question remains: What’s a community and what’s just a scene?
A scene is meticulously curated. It’s aspirational by design—assembled for visibility, sustained through aesthetics, and fueled by proximity to influence. A scene runs on image: who you know, how you show up, whether your outfit matches the event flyer, or if someone notices your latest hairstyle. It doesn’t run deep. It’s constructed to be observed, not inhabited. While authenticity is often brandished as a value, there’s little room for real vulnerability or discomfort. A scene doesn’t hold you—it has its own agenda.
Community, in contrast, is a living, interwoven fabric. It’s a relational ecosystem built on shared experiences, mutual care, and sustained participation. Resistant to commodification. From many African Indigenous perspectives, community is rooted in the principle of Ubuntu: “I am because we are.” It embodies interdependence, collective responsibility, and the nurturing of each other through both joy and struggle. Community isn’t a hashtag or a one-off event. It’s a commitment to show up, often in ways that are inconvenient, unglamorous, and unseen. It demands endurance, presence, and honesty—especially when no one is watching.
In short: A scene is a well-lit stage, a community is the steady heartbeat beneath it.
If this resonated with you, moved you, or made you pause and reflect – consider this your cue. I’ve set up a virtual tip jar via Buy Me a Coffee. No monthly commitments, no strings, no memberships required.
Your sweet kindness helps keep the thoughts flowing, the energy exchange intact, and the glow of my inner goddess alive. It won’t fix capitalism, but it might buy me five minutes of joy (or at least a cortado).
Gracias. Thank you. Jërëjëf. Merci. Obrigada. Danke. Arigatō. Medaase. Grazie. Hvala. Tack. Asante. Shukran. Teşekkürler. Dziękuję.
