A few months ago, someone I worked for explained that he operated at a higher level of consciousness than the rest of us. He wasn’t joking. He explained that after spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on mentorship and spiritual development, he simply couldn’t expect his employees to understand how he sees the world. I remember thinking: Isn’t this exactly the opposite of what Buddhist practice is supposed to produce?

This conversation stayed with me, not only because it was unusual, but because it seemed to reveal something much larger. Somewhere along the way, spirituality has become something we imagine we can possess, display, compare, and even rank.

Over the last six years of studying Buddhist wisdom, I’ve slowly come to realize that my greatest obstacle isn’t the world around me, but my own ego. This encounter revealed yet another way the ego disguises itself. In fact, it can appropriate anything, even Buddhism.

In other words, what may begin as a sincere practice can become yet another identity and possession of the self. This is because the ego does not simply disappear when we begin exploring spiritual wisdom. Rather, it often volunteers to become spiritual first. In modern Western culture, there is a whole industry built around exclusive retreats, expensive masterminds, manifestation coaching, and an increasingly popular brand of self-improvement referred to as “high-vibration” living.

Of course, in order to achieve this “high-vibration” living, you must pay the price . . . literally.

Retreats, certifications, coaching programs, exclusive communities, and private mentorship can cost anywhere from hundreds to tens of thousands of dollars. Once those fees are paid, it can become tempting to believe we’ve earned something more than knowledge. We begin to feel we’ve purchased wisdom itself, or at least secured our place among those who have “done the work.”

This is not to say that the practices that the self-improvement industry is built upon are necessarily bad. Retreats can be wonderful, teachers deserve to be paid, and mentorship is incredibly valuable. The problem begins when the practice becomes just another status symbol, and evidence that one is better than others. This is where Buddhist wisdom has something profound to say.

One expression of this tendency is the mere statement “I have attained a higher level of consciousness than you.” While I earnestly did not know how to respond to this assertion in the moment, a thoughtful response influenced by Buddhist wisdom might simply be “Interesting. Why do you need me to know that?”

This is because the Buddha rarely encouraged people to advertise realization. In Zen Buddhism, truly accomplished teachers often appear remarkably ordinary. One of my favorite themes in Buddhism is that genuine wisdom tends to produce less self-importance, not more. This is not because people are pretending to be humble, but because the self that they are elevating has become less solid in the first place.

As Buddhist practice deepens, we begin to see that the identity we spend so much of our lives trying to protect is far less fixed than we once believed. The boundaries between “me” and “you” become softer, and our need to prove ourselves and be admired loosens its grip. When there is less attachment to the self, there is naturally less interest in convincing others of its importance.

Tibetan Buddhist teacher Chögyam Trungpa famously named this tendency to use Dharma-based practice as yet another possession of the ego “spiritual materialism.” His basic argument was that the ego is incredibly clever. If it can’t become important through money, career, or intelligence, then it will become important through spirituality, meditation, and enlightenment. The ego simply changes costumes.

Sometimes the costumes of the ego are wealth or professional success. Other times they are meditation retreats, mindfulness certifications, or claims of heightened consciousness. The costume changes, but the impulse is the unchanging desire to build an identity around the concept of “me.”

These examples point toward an interesting question: Why are we so inclined to turn inner growth into something to achieve in the first place?

I actually think the deeper issue isn’t individual arrogance. Rather, it is part of a larger lifestyle that encourages people to treat awakening like an achievement. Modern Western culture is obsessed with optimization. We strive to optimize our fitness, productivity, relationships, wellness, and finances, among countless other things. We are constantly told that every aspect of our lives can be improved, measured, and mastered with enough effort.

It is unsurprising, then, that we begin treating the Dharma the same way. Western attitudes and consumer capitalism have collided with spirituality, and as a result, people have begun attempting to optimize their inner lives in the same way they do their fitness or careers.

Awakening becomes none other than another milestone to reach and identity to cultivate.

Yet Buddhist wisdom consistently points in the opposite direction, challenging this impulse to treat awakening as something to achieve. And still, the ego has a remarkable ability to adapt. It responds, “Look how egoless I’ve become.”

It is not uncommon to hear people speak about becoming their “highest selves.” Countless retreats, coaching programs, and masterminds promise some version of this transformation. The language is often one of elevation: raising your consciousness, increasing your frequency, expanding your awareness, or reaching a higher vibration. Notice how much achievement language there is. As a result, the pursuit of inner growth begins to sound less like letting go and more like climbing another ladder. The goal shifts from becoming free of the ego to becoming someone with a more impressive ego. This is spiritual materialism at its core.

Of course, recognizing this tendency does not mean rejecting teachers or guidance altogether. In fact, Buddhism has always emphasized the importance of learning from those further along the path. Monastics and lay practitioners have mentors, and even the Buddha himself had teachers before his awakening. The distinction lies not in whether we have teachers, but in the kind of relationship we cultivate with them.

Traditional Buddhist teachers aren’t selling superiority. Rather, they are pointing beyond themselves. A genuine teacher gradually makes themselves less necessary, while a manipulative teacher utilizes status as social currency and makes themselves increasingly indispensable. That is a huge distinction, and one that all practitioners should remain aware of when seeking out guidance.

I wish I could say the tendency for spiritual materialism belongs only to other people. It doesn’t.

I’ve caught myself comparing my practice to others’ and even sometimes foolishly believing myself to be wiser than them. As previously mentioned, the ego doesn’t disappear when we begin practicing, especially when we already exist within a culture that glorifies optimization. It simply takes on a new form. The practice, then, is to notice its disguises with honesty, humility, and compassion so that we can become less easily fooled by them.

Perhaps this is why Buddhism places so much emphasis on continual practice. Spiritual materialism isn’t a stage we outgrow once and for all. It’s a tendency we learn to recognize again and again. After all, the clearest sign of maturity on the path isn’t how often someone talks about their level of consciousness, how much they’ve spent on retreats, or how many teachers they’ve studied under. Perhaps it’s something much more subtle. Do people around them feel seen? Do they become less reactive, less defensive, and more compassionate? The Buddha never asked us to impress one another with our awakening. He asked us to reduce suffering. In the end, that is a much harder thing to fake.

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