Spiritual Festivals Committed to Decolonial Work—Do They Exist?
I love receiving invitations. There’s something flattering about an email that says: “We’d love to have you.” Workshops. Panels. Summits. Podcasts. And lately—festivals.
At the same time, my algorithm has decided that I am deeply interested in festival ads featuring Black or Brown speakers talking about how life-changing the experience was. The algorithm knows that if a Person of Color speaks, I’m more likely to pause. Representation works. Even when it’s used to sell early-bird tickets.
What the algorithm hasn’t figured out yet is how to show me festivals that are actually committed to decolonial work. Because I haven’t seen one.
What I see are the same spaces that have existed for many years. People gathering under a spiritual umbrella to feel good and breathe. To open the heart. To create spaces that feel expansive and free. Beautifully staged circles designed to radiate love and light for everyone.
Everyone? Well. Not quite everyone.
Because those of us who are genuinely invested in decolonial practice are not nourished by aesthetics. We do not need a “Decolonize Spirituality” banner behind the DJ booth or “Smash the Patriarchy” printed on a tote bag. What we do need is an honest confrontation with power and history. With harm. With who feels safe in these spaces—and who is expected to perform safety for others.
That conversation is largely absent.
My spiritual work is not comfortable. I sometimes wish it were. Life would be so much easier if I could slip into a soft-focus spiri bubble, sip ceremonial cacao, and call it collective healing. But I can’t. I’ve tried for long enough. It leaves me feeling empty. Because if nothing structural is being questioned, then what exactly are we doing? Regulating our nervous systems inside the same hierarchies?
So when these invitations arrive, I ask myself one simple question:
Have you actually read my work—and understood it?
Because I am not subtle. I am not there to decorate your lineup or diversify your feed. I ask direct questions. I name power. I interrupt comfort. I annoy people. It’s often the only doorway to honesty.
And let me be clear about something else: I am not interested in teaching the ABCs of cultural appropriation, neocolonialism, or spiritual capitalism in a softly lit circle. I am not an introductory workshop. There are others doing that. Thank you so much for this, others!!!
You see, when I taught yoga, I avoided beginner classes. I am not the most patient person, and I work best when a certain foundation is already there. I step in when people have done some reading and some unlearning. Some self-examination.
I am not here to argue with people who think practicing yoga and meditation makes them less racist. I am not here to debate why I call New Age spirituality “neocolonialism in yoga pants.” I am not here to convince anyone that cultural appropriation is real, violent, and a colonial practice. I am not sitting on panels to hand-hold people through the basics—people who haven’t questioned their own assumptions, noticed how they occupy space, or done even a little self-reflection.
I genuinely wonder: do you really want the hard questions on your festival stage? In between ecstatic dance and cacao bliss? Are you ready for the moment the room goes silent? Because the discomfort—and fragile defensiveness—that shows up when privileged people are confronted with their own privilege hits different.
And I am not interested in being the token presence that gives your event a faint decolonial shimmer while the structure itself remains untouched. No, thank you.
Maybe the spiritual festival scene isn’t ready for these conversations.
Honestly, I suspect it prefers not to change.
But I’m happy to be proven wrong. If there is a festival that engages decolonial work not as a “nice to have” but as a core feature, tell me.
I’m thirsty for structural courage.
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.
