When You Guru, but Forget Aparigraha
Today I want to talk about something that has crept into all our lives, whether we notice it or not: the irresistible urge to accumulate. To gather stuff. Hoard things. Like those greedy little magpies stuffing their nests with anything that glitters.
Only our treasures aren’t bottle caps and beads (well, maybe for some). Usually, they’re things we tell ourselves we need. Things that, conveniently, also let everyone else know how well we’re doing. And there’s this little contradiction I’ve always found stunning in yogaland: accumulation and yoga repel each other like two stubborn magnets. You can push as hard as you want, but they’ll never actually click into place.
I say this not from a pedestal but from lived experience. I grew up poor. I know what it’s like to be the marginalized kid who never had what the others had. Later, as a young woman, I lived the cliché of clichés: I was in a relationship with a multimillionaire. And believe me, those two worlds are not just far apart—they’re so fundamentally different that it feels like trying to compare 1D with 5D reality. Having seen both extremes, I became painfully aware of how wealth is performed. And, more importantly, how it’s often justified—even in spaces that claim to be spiritual.
Somehow, contradictions often scream the loudest in spiritual worlds. Take yoga, for example… think of all the famous folks who put “yoga” under their banner. Think of Osho cruising around in his Rolls Royces, or nowadays Sadhguru, who seems to have a different luxury watch for every occasion. But it’s not only Indian Pop Star Gurus. Those “I am the richest yogi alive” folks are not tied to any culture or nationality. What they all have in common, though, is that they are highly efficient capitalists, using spirituality and an uncritical crowd of spiritual seekers to gain wealth.
And who can deny that the foundation of yoga philosophy is clear on the matter? That would be like saying, “Wait, I’m not so sure the Ten Commandments really forbid killing people.” One of the yamas—the ethical pillars of yoga—is Aparigraha. Roughly translated: non-possessiveness, non-hoarding, or non-greed. It’s the practice of letting go of clinging, of not accumulating beyond what’s needed. But it goes deeper than giving away your old yoga pants. Aparigraha challenges the very structure of our desires. It asks us: why do we need more, when we already have enough? What is this hunger to own, to consume, and to display? And who pays the price for our excess? Because someone always does. Someone always pays a price.
Most folks presenting yoga to a larger crowd seem to have forgotten that. And before you start with the usual, “Shall we all live in cages now or what?” nonsense—Aparigraha is not about becoming a monk with a begging bowl (at least, not for the majority of us). It’s about responsibility. About recognizing that what we take, someone else cannot.
Imagine a birthday cake with eight slices. You, greedy as you are, snatch five, and the other ten people have to fight over the remaining three. That’s the earth, my friend. The earth is the cake—and it is finite. And now I’m speaking directly to you, abundance-mindset coach—it really is. The earth is finite, and we cannot all have everything. That’s basic logic, basic math, basic science, basic intelligence… you don’t need to dig into quantum physics or consult a crystal oracle to get that. Resources run out, whether we like it or not.
Endless flights across the globe to “find yourself” are not enlightenment, they’re emissions. That beach in Costa Rica doesn’t have enough room for every ex-finance-bro to build his spiritual beach house. The carbon footprint of a single luxury yoga retreat could probably sustain a small village for months. But somehow, in the haze of palo santo and abundance chanting, we pretend this doesn’t matter.
Minimalism, in this light, isn’t just cheaper or about dealing with less stuff—it’s the only sane response to the world we live in. If you still think differently, start doing the math. And yet, instead of embracing it, we’ve allowed yoga and spirituality to morph into luxury branding. Yoga teachers posing in paradise, students buying training after training after training – the dream of becoming a “yogi” being sold with a boarding pass and a mind full of wanting more.
Let’s be blunt: a lifestyle that glorifies excess—whether it’s cars, clothes, plane tickets, costly experiences, trainings, or whatever else—cannot be called yogic. It’s performative at best, hypocritical at worst. Any person living on a small scale is closer to living yogic truth than a self-proclaimed guru posting selfies from their infinity pool in Koh Phangan. Or, (because its not just the teachers,) your average Western yoga crowd colonizing and gentrifying tropical “paradises” for enlightenment, better food, and better weather.
And yet, we look away. We shut not one but all three eyes to Aparigraha, because it’s uncomfortable and it means we have to give something up. We have to change from the inside and rewire our desires. Because it means facing our own complicity in the culture of greed. I know I sound harsh. I don’t mind. I am saving the sweet words for romance, not for the screaming contradictions in a deeply hypocritical yoga world.
You know, my spiritually curious friend, greed isn’t just unyogic—I think it’s deeply unintelligent. And not that anybody asked me, but I won’t take seriously any yoga teacher, coach, mentor, healer, or guru who engages willfully in the capitalist fairytale of accumulating more. Call it wellness if you like, but let’s not pretend it’s yoga.
And last but not least, the part that people often miss: modesty doesn’t mean misery. Living simply isn’t a punishment. It doesn’t mean you have to give up beauty, joy, or experiences that matter. But it does mean stepping out of the endless cycle of wanting, buying, flaunting. It means choosing sufficiency over excess, responsibility over greed, consciousness over consumerism.
And that, in the end, is the practice. The simple, unglamorous, radical act of saying: enough.
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.
