The Problem of Classism in Psychedelic, Wellness, and New Age Spaces

I find conversations surrounding class both interesting and uncomfortable. I come from a middle-class background, and grew up in a semi-detached house in the suburbs of North London with parents who had middle-class jobs, such as my dad, who was a university lecturer. I went to a state-funded comprehensive secondary school, which didn’t have any entry requirements, and I mixed with students from different backgrounds, and this came with some difficulties. I struggled to make friends, and I think part of this was down to how I came across, particularly when I spoke, as other students thought I was ‘posh’

The year before I started secondary school, I attended a Jewish summer camp as part of my upbringing as a North London Jewish kid – it’s just sort of what you did being part of a local synagogue, and I certainly found it easier making friends there compared to school. There were other attendees from similar backgrounds, but also a lot wealthier backgrounds, and this also became a point of contention as I entered my teenage years, when I started spending time with these friends outside of the summer camp environment. A lot of them went to private schools and had parents who worked in high-end corporate jobs, and I became aware of the subtle differences that seemed more pronounced as we became adults. 

This feeling of being somewhat ‘in-between’ spaces provided me with some early exposure to class dynamics, as well as understanding who feels comfortable in particular situations. I’ve carried this class-sensitivity into my adult life, and become aware of these subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) differences within the wider psychedelic and wellness circles. There are many issues related to accessibility when it comes to things such as available treatments, events, or retreats, and it’s important to explore how certain spaces which utilise the concepts of healing and unity can often reinforce pre-existing class dynamics. 

I will speak mostly in relation to psychedelic spaces, as this has been my primary entry point into the world of wellness and healing. At university, I was introduced to the power of psilocybin mushrooms, which were growing less than a 10-minute walk from the campus. Picking these fungi out of the ground felt mischievous and also wonderful, as it took a while to notice them, but once you found them…you found them all! There was something enchanting about going on an excursion with your friends and engaging directly with the wisdom of the fungi, without any extra bells or whistles. The people I went on these adventures with were from mixed backgrounds, and the genuine interest in these substances created a common focus despite any differences in our upbringing. 

This sentiment led me and two other friends to found the UKC Psychedelics Society at the University of Kent in 2009, where we hosted weekly lectures on a wide range of topics, as well as being the catalyst for the first Breaking Convention conference in 2011. This society was born out of pure curiosity and a connection we found in the mystery, as well as the joy of these kinds of experiences. The countercultural elements of art, music, and poetry, along with alternative interpretations of spirituality and philosophy through a psychedelic lens, allowed us to engage with a world that wasn’t so intimately tied up with research into ideas surrounding the psychotherapeutic benefits of these substances. It felt like we understood the benefits from an intrinsic point of view, often sharing stories about any revelations we had experienced, and understanding how these experiences could influence our thinking, creativity, and sense of community. 

At this point in time, everything felt quite hidden and magical…almost secretive in a way that allowed us to be connected to a sense of the world that others might be cut off from. We often had students come up to us at our stall during the freshers' fayre and say things like “Oh, is this the society where you guys just all take drugs?” We didn’t mind fellow students lightly poking fun, and understood that what we were doing as a society might have seemed a bit out there. 

The increasing interest in the world of psychedelics has changed the nature of the enchantment surrounding these types of experiences, because now it seems that everyone is talking about these substances (perhaps a lot of the same types of people who might have been poking fun at us as students), and the narrative has certainly become more mainstream. There are certainly positives to this for widening the reach of psychedelics to assist individuals and communities in certain situations, but ultimately the ‘mainstreaming’ has also allowed for more access by individuals or organisations who might not have previously been advocating for access until it was deemed safe to do so, or where it might not have previously been appealing to the more capitalist elements of society.

Classism is a sensitive topic, especially within the context of the broader wellness space, where often those who don’t have access to these different avenues of healing are often the ones who need it the most. 

Our understanding of class is mostly related to socio-economic status or level of income, as well as the type of jobs people have, their academic achievements, and their friendship groups. This often overlaps with geographical areas as well as social status, meaning class can have an impact on social mobility and access to services. Talking about it openly can be problematic, especially in places like the UK, where we have such entrenched ideas of “working”, “middle” and “upper” class, which are often in relation to those with inherited wealth or the landed gentry.

In somewhere like the USA, the class structure has more of a sense of mobility, with class being defined primarily by personal wealth and the type of lifestyle one is able to afford – the differences in conceptions of class between the UK and USA is interesting within the context of psychedelics, with both countries leading the way in psychedelic research. There are different ways of engaging with these substances, as well as the USA having certain legislative freedoms that might allow for more access to these spaces or pathways compared to somewhere like the UK. These legislative freedoms might also open up opportunities for individuals from communities who might have previously been affected by the war on drugs, where they are now able to establish enterprises that benefit from these changes. 

The recent global resurgence of interest in wellness spaces, along with the psychedelic renaissance over the past couple of decades has brought some of these tensions to the surface, and I often find myself having conversations with people who feel a sense of being ‘left out’ or that they don’t have the necessary resources to access spaces that were previously more democratised. It’s important to examine these tensions to understand how best spaces and organisations within psychedelic, wellness, and New Age communities are able to provide services in a sustainable way that has a wider impact on society than just serving a small section of it. 

Some tension undoubtedly exists with claims of cultural appropriation by certain people or groups in these spaces. There are those who feel like the grass-roots or countercultural elements to the psychedelic movement have been replaced by a culture of wellness, with certain pathways only becoming attainable with the right amount of resources. These tensions are very real, but the New Age and wellness movements, which seemed to accelerate in the 1960s, were often populated by white middle-class individuals who had the luxury to afford new ways of thinking about life. 

The use of mind-altering substances in Western modern societies can be dated back to the 18th and 19th centuries, where scientific exploration also led to experimentation with certain drugs by medics and scientists prior to the wider public having any experience with them. This seems like an early form of gatekeeping, where the scientists thought only they were knowledgeable enough to properly explore the nature of these substances, and perhaps this kind of energy has persisted to this day, with certain narratives being woven or protocols being approved for how best to consume psychedelic substances to achieve certain results. Some people might view this as necessary for providing greater access to those who need essential treatments to manage things like depression or PTSD, and some might view them as just a different kind of control by an elite group of scientists, academics, and investors who want to disseminate these substances in a certain way. 

A lot of these practices – whether it be the use of plant medicine, yoga, or breathwork – have been appropriated by those in the West and commercialised up to the point where the indigenous wisdom behind them might have been lost. The popularisation of psychedelics in Western culture was driven by the introduction of psilocybin mushrooms by JP Morgan banker R. Gordon Wasson, who in 1955, under false pretenses, gained entry to a ceremony in Oaxaca in Mexico, led by Mazatec healer Maria Sabina – a subsequent article was published in Life! magazine without consent, credit, or compensation. This, unfortunately, had negative impacts on Maria and her wider community, and has arguably paved the way for further extraction and colonisation of psychedelic substances through research that predominantly focuses on white people from middle-class backgrounds.

This isn’t an article on psychedelics and colonisation, but it’s important to mention this given how intricately linked class is to the ability of certain groups or individuals to extract or appropriate from certain cultures.

The financial barrier is probably the first thing I think of when it comes to classism, as it relates to the ease with which someone can access the kinds of spaces we’re talking about. With the cost of certain retreats getting into the thousands/tens of thousands, we’re seeing more attention placed on the idea of creating luxury experiences that are simply unaffordable for people. This article isn’t intended as a whiney piece to say “Oh look at what they have over there…it must be nice to be able to afford that” but rather explore how these types of experiences, which are out of reach for so many, might have an effect on individuals within the wider society that is already facing so many issues related to inequality. 

One of these luxury experiences I want to draw particular attention to is Beckley Retreats, co-founded by the late Amanda Feilding of the Beckley Foundation, her son Rock Feilding-Mellen, and Neil Markey, a former Captain in the U.S. Army’s Special Operations 2nd Ranger Battalion. These immersive retreats mostly take place in Jamaica and the Netherlands for participants wanting to utilise the benefits of psilocybin mushrooms, with another service in California intended for participants wishing to engage in a ‘ketamine ceremony’.

The cost of these retreats ranges from $5,975–$11,550, which seems like a lot of money given that you can buy mushroom grow kits online as well as spores for ‘microscopy’ purposes and probably figure out what to do with them without too much hassle…I even had this conversation with a former CEO of an energy company who mentioned to me that they were attending a Beckley Retreat to take mushrooms for the first time, and I asked if they had ever considered cultivating for themselves. This is a wider conversation related to accessibility, but as the majority of people most probably can’t afford these kinds of retreats, there might be some creative ways to get around the issues of accessibility from a more anarchistic point of view. 

My attention on Beckley Retreats over the others is that its founders represent the ultimate class divide when it comes to these kinds of spaces. Amanda Claire Marian Charteris, Countess of Wemyss and March (this being the official title of Amanda Feilding) was a proponent of research into the therapeutic benefits of substances such as LSD and cannabis, and championed research through the efforts of the Beckley Foundation. Since the 1960s, she has been a significant figure in the world of psychedelic research, with the New Scientist referring to her as the “Queen of Consciousness”, and she is remembered fondly by those who worked with her and knew her personally. 

But we can’t forget that one of the biggest advocates of psychedelic research hailed from the upper-class aristocracy in England and was married to James Donald Charteris, 13th Earl of Wemyss. Beckley Park (the HQ of the Beckley Foundation) itself was built on land first enclosed in the 12th century, which was held by Roger D’Ivry, a nobleman from the 11th century who took part in the Norman conquest of England. The land has remained within the English aristocracy to this day, and I find it interesting that this isn’t necessarily spoken about more, given the relationship between our connection to the land and our experiences of healing in spaces, which relate to things like psychedelics or wellness. Events in history such as the passing of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994, which essentially legislated against raves, as well as targeting related areas of this counterculture, such as squatters, eco-protestors, and “New Age travellers”, were pivotal moments in limiting freedom of assembly and cutting off ordinary people from gathering on the land. 

This desire to remove people who might have threatened some idea of British decency can be seen in the aesthetics of today’s social media narrative surrounding psychedelic and wellness spaces. While influencers on platforms such as TikTok or Instagram might have some positive effect in contributing to the wider conversation surrounding topics such as the benefits of psychedelics, it’s interesting to see how seemingly perfect these influencers look in an imperfect world. Psychedelic experiences are not often straightforward, and as much as I firmly believe in the idea of creating a suitable set and setting, there’s a potential danger in trying to make everything look ‘just right’ – we might be setting our expectations too high, given what we’re seeing with the glut of high-end retreats where everything is taken care of and it’s all totally aesthetically pleasing. 

We are seeing this in the wider festival space as well, with events such as Medicine Festival which is advertised as “A unique remedial festival experience which invites people to come together and envision a more enlightened, peaceful and sustainable world”, as well as other events such as ‘Solstice’ and ‘Equinox’ taking place on Wasing Estate. This estate is managed by Joshua Dugdale, who among other things is an Eton-educated, British farmer, a campaigner for access to psilocybin, and also the cousin of former Prime Minister David Cameron (interestingly, Medicine Festival was allowed to go ahead in 2020 while there were covid restrictions placed on the live music industry, which has subsequently begun to collapse in the UK, while there seems to be a rise of these kinds of wellness festivals).

Individuals might be feeling left out because they don’t look the part, or they don’t speak in the correct narratives or academic jargon, which is focused mainly on the discussion surrounding the therapeutic benefits of certain substances or healing pathways. There might be limits as to who is allowed to participate in healing or transformation, or the creation of a two-tiered system, which reinforces the systems that these types of experiences have the potential to dismantle. People who experience the trauma of being rooted in poverty might feel alienated from the wider healing world, where they might feel like they can’t afford the same kind of opportunities as others, despite having a wealth of knowledge gained from their lives.

I’ve personally experienced the tension between experiential knowledge and clinical validation at conferences and events, but I also think these kinds of spaces have often elicited interaction between different classes. We can’t forget that in somewhere like the UK, access to pretty much all substances is restricted (unless you happen to have a medical cannabis restriction) and individuals from middle-to-upper are supposedly taking more of these substances than working class people, and will most likely be engaging with certain elements of society which aren’t particularly middle-class. 

I don’t know if classism in these spaces is necessarily a ‘problem’ that needs to be fixed with specific solutions, as individuals from the classes who exert more control over society will always act in the way they do and want things to be done in a certain way, or have a particular aesthetic which needs to be upheld. But I do think there are new ways of imagining how we can go about creating these kinds of spaces that appeal to everyone, and allow for a sense of inclusivity and belonging. 

I have been working in the wider fungi space for a couple of years, and I’m fascinated by concepts such as decentralised intelligence in relation to how mycelium grows, and how we might be able to create a system that is more reciprocal or symbiotic. We can look at healing in the sense of being a wider ecosystem, rather than competing brands or festivals all jostling for a market share of the New-Age, wellness, and psychedelic spaces. The purpose of this article is not to complain or shame others for the positions they find themselves in, but rather to encourage some honest self-reflection with humility and a willingness to openly discuss the topics of class dynamics without any sense of guilt. With this in mind, I believe we can truly begin to understand and implement ideas of oneness and togetherness to create a more cohesive and peaceful society. 

Oli is one of our community bloggers here at Chemical Collective. If you’re interested in joining our blogging team and getting paid to write about subjects you’re passionate about, please reach out to Sam via email at [email protected]