
Before I became a yoga instructor and massage therapist, I worked in restaurants and doctor's offices. In each of these places, I was surrounded by salespeople who had the perfect product for everything. It didn’t matter if it were a drug, a bottle of wine, or a promising wellness product, each salesperson had a pitch that made the item sound like we couldn’t do without it. I’d meet pharmaceutical reps who never came empty-handed. They’d bribe the doctors and staff with lunch, and in return, we'd sit through a 20-minute story about how their drug was a “breakthrough” in treating viral infections but never mentioned how it broke through. In the restaurant industry, wine reps came in hauling cases of bottles that they swore were “complex, yet approachable.” Were they selling wine or themselves on a dating app? According to William Lutz, in his essay, With These Words, I Can Sell You Anything, the language they used was double-speak, a way of making something sound extraordinary without giving any real proof. Although I encountered plenty of doublespeak in the food and medical industries, I was shocked by how rampant it was in the wellness industry.
Often after I taught yoga classes in my studio, my students and I engaged in conversations about health. One day, I mentioned to one of my students that I had been dealing with brain fog, and she told me about a wellness product that was a “game changer.” The product was sold by a local business owner, who was known for promoting health-related remedies. Since I didn’t want to go on medication and I did not have the desire to change my diet, to support a clearer mind, I asked for her number to find out more, and we set up a meeting.
She looked younger than her 60 years, which helped me relax. The product did what it claimed to do. She was excited to tell me how the product had made her feel and look twenty years younger. She promised that within days, my brain fog would be “eliminated,” and that I’d experience more energy, pain-free muscles, and smoother joints. She also mentioned that her hair was thickening, and she felt like she had the energy of a twenty-year-old. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be twenty, but her excitement made me think this product would unlock some hidden energy in me. She ended by saying, “This product helps with everything.” Vague, I thought. But I wanted to feel the way she said I would, so I bought the starter pack—pre- and probiotics and a multivitamin. The cost was much higher than I anticipated, but she assured me that I would save money later, by avoiding doctors. “Trust me, you’re going to be amazed,” she said. As I gave her my credit card info, I imagined myself in the future doing anything I wanted, from skiing in the Alps to running marathons, all thanks to this miracle blend.
Unfortunately, after two months of using the product, I didn’t feel any different. “It will happen all at once,” she reassured me. When I asked her what exactly was in the product, she invited me to an online meeting so she could explain more. But when I joined, there were other people there. I quickly realized I had landed in a recruitment pitch for more salespeople. She and her team went on and on about how great the product was, but they couldn’t say why. It was like the group was brainwashed, with the owner cheering them on. One woman, through tears, shared that she couldn’t sell anything, but the owner dismissed her, saying it would all happen at once. I felt bad for that lady—and for myself, for falling into this weird pyramid-scheme vibe. I thought I was there to learn about the product, but it turned into a sales pitch for the “business opportunity.”
Eventually, I asked, “What’s in the product? I can’t find the ingredients. It says, ‘proprietary blend.” The energy in that Zoom room shifted instantly. Through stiffened lips, the owner told me that I didn’t need to know. “It’s scientific,” she said, and that the “scientists” had gotten it right. I pictured people in white lab coats, working tirelessly. When I asked where the lab was, she asked me why it mattered. “Our testimony is all you need.” I wondered why she thought I should trust her words. She offered nothing to back up her testimony about the product, other than from her sales team spewing what Lutz calls weasel words. A weasel will steal the eggs of other animals, hollow them out, and return the empty shell as if it were still whole. That’s what weasel words do, they are empty but still convincing. Words like “scientifically proven,” “life-changing,” and “pure” all sound impressive, but they left me with no real information. “Scientifically proven” by who? What studies? These phrases were meant to distract me from asking questions, and “proprietary blend” offered no answers.
Despite all the red flags, I kept going with the product. Part of me just wanted to believe in the miracle I’d been promised. I wanted the energy, the vitality, the youthful body they assured me was just around the corner. But after a few more months of no change, I had to face the truth. The product wasn’t doing anything, and I had paid way more than I needed to. It wasn’t a “miracle cure”, and it certainly wasn’t “life changing.” I could think of some truly life-changing moments in my life, and vitamins had nothing to do with them.
Looking back, I’m shocked at how easily I was taken in by all the doublespeak. The language of “miracle blends,” “scientifically proven,” and “pure” created this illusion of trustworthiness and credibility, but it was all just empty promises.
Since then, I have adopted a better eating ritual that includes a balance of whole foods, my doctor recommends that require no other explanation.
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