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Every morning at SoulCycle, I ride next to Michael.
Michael is in his seventies. A former Lazard investment banker turned private equity firm owner, he shows up unfailingly, clips in, and rides hard. Uniquely among the riders, he wears his sweatshirt throughout the entire class. Years ago, when SoulCycle was still scaling and long before it became part of the Equinox portfolio, Michael and one of his partners actually explored acquiring the business. He ultimately passed -- but not without insight.
One morning after class, still flushed from the ride, he uttered something incredibly insightful that resonated strongly: “SoulCycle is selling a drug.”
He didn’t mean that metaphorically in an off-hand way. He meant it precisely. The drug is the neurochemical cocktail of exertion and belonging: endorphins, dopamine, and the reinforcing pull of accountability. It’s the rush of moving in sync with others, to loud rhythmic music, inside a modern tribal ritual. It’s habit-forming in the best possible sense, and people happily pay for it, over and over again.
Over the years, I’ve seen profound transformations in that room. Physical, certainly. But also emotional, behavioral, and social. I’ve experienced it myself. With more than 2,500 rides under my belt over 8+ years, SoulCycle has become less an activity and more a pillar of my life -- augmented by Core Studio, a new Pilates studio founded by a SoulCycle instructor, group classes at Life Time Fitness, Bulldog Yoga, and the ever-present tractor beam pulling me toward Barry’s Bootcamp and OrangeTheory.
From the outside, this may look like indulgence. From a strategy lens, it looks like a masterclass. And like other trends in the consumerization of healthcare, pharma and biotech marketing leaders should be paying very close attention.
One of the most striking things about boutique fitness is how effectively it turns a functional behavior, exercise, into part of personal identity.
People don’t just go to SoulCycle or Barry’s. They are SoulCycle riders. Barry’s people talk about the “Red Room” with reverence. [SolidCore] devotees speak about the reformer with a mix of respect and quiet intimidation; the machine itself becomes a shared reference point, a kind of rite of passage that bonds the room.
This identity formation is reinforced everywhere: in-studio language, instructors who are mini-celebrities on social media, rituals, milestones, and -- very visibly -- apparel. The clothing is not incidental. Wearing it is a signal to others and a reinforcement to oneself: this is who I am.
No one expects patients to start wearing branded pharma T-shirts and hoodies. But the underlying insight matters. Health behaviors stick when they move from compliance to identity. When participation becomes a statement about who you are, not just something you’re supposed to do, adherence follows naturally.
Pharma has spent decades trying to drive persistency through reminders, copay cards, and education. Boutique fitness shows another path: help people somehow see the behavior as an extension of themselves.
At the heart of boutique fitness is community.
You notice when someone doesn’t show up. Instructors call out names. Riders celebrate each other’s milestones...100 rides, 500 rides, birthdays, recoveries. You are known. You are missed. You are accountable.
Behavioral thinkers like Nir Eyal (author of Hooked) have long argued that habits are reinforced by social rewards: approval, belonging, recognition. Boutique fitness operationalizes this insight brilliantly. The reward isn’t just endorphins; it’s the shout out from the instructor, the text from a fellow rider, the Instagram post celebrating your consistency.
For pharma and biotech, this is both inspiring and uncomfortable.
Healthcare has traditionally been individualistic and transactional. A patient, a prescription, an outcome. But chronic disease management is, by definition, longitudinal. It requires sustained behavior over months and years. Community, whether peer-to-peer, patient-to-patient, or patient-provider, is a still vastly under-leveraged.
We talk about “patient support programs,” but often design them as services rather than ecosystems. Boutique fitness reminds us that the strongest form of support doesn’t feel like support at all. It feels like belonging.
Every major boutique fitness brand uses digital exceptionally well, not as a bolt-on, but as a core behavioral engine.
Apps track attendance, streaks, milestones, and performance metrics. They surface social proof. They make progress visible. They turn effort into data, and data into motivation. They celebrate you publicly and privately, reinforcing the loop. Peloton is probably the best case study: their digital ecosystem is a cornucopia of content and motivation.
This is not gamification for novelty’s sake. It’s true habit architecture.
Contrast this with much of digital health, where apps often exist because strategy decks say they should. Engagement is shallow. Value is unclear. Incentives are misaligned. Data goes nowhere meaningful.
Boutique fitness succeeds because the digital layer is tightly coupled to a real-world behavior people already enjoy. The app doesn’t ask you to care about abstract metrics; it reflects effort you are investing or have already invested...and rewards you for continuing.
For pharma and biotech, the lesson is clear: digital works when it reinforces and amplifies intrinsic motivation, not when it tries to manufacture it.
Another underappreciated aspect of boutique fitness is how meticulously the experience is designed.
Lighting. Music. Instructor cadence. Language. Even the choreography of transitions. None of this is accidental. The experience is immersive, emotional, and repeatable.
Healthcare, by contrast, is often designed around information transfer. We assume that if patients understand enough, they will act accordingly. Decades of evidence suggest otherwise.
People change behavior when the experience makes them feel something: supported, capable, energized, proud. Boutique fitness understands this at a visceral level.
Pharma and biotech don’t need to become entertainment companies. But they do need to think more seriously about experience design across the patient journey -- and not just the clinical endpoints, but the emotional ones.
One of the most encouraging aspects of this movement is demographic.
Most of the people I ride with are in their twenties and thirties. They are investing heavily, both financially and emotionally, in cardiovascular health, strength, and resilience long before disease manifests. They are forming habits early, in communities that normalize consistency and effort. They are striving to become anti-fragile.
From a population health perspective, this matters.
If these behaviors persist, we may see cohorts entering middle age fitter, more engaged, and more proactive about health than any generation before them. That has implications for everything from disease incidence curves to how value is defined across the healthcare ecosystem.
Boutique fitness will not replace medicine. But it may meaningfully delay its necessity. And that is not a threat. It is an opportunity.
Michael was right. SoulCycle is selling a drug. But unlike most drugs, its success depends on joy, identity, and community. Not on obligation.
The strategic question for pharma and biotech is not whether they can replicate boutique fitness. They can’t, and shouldn’t try.
The real question is: What would our brands, services, and ecosystems look like if we took habit formation as seriously as these companies do?
What if adherence were designed, not managed? What if community were a core asset, not an afterthought? What if health behaviors were something people took pride in?
I once joked with Elys Roberts that I’d love to become a SoulCycle instructor someday...if only to make my current weekly ride habit more cost-effective. With enough rides behind me, who knows. Stranger things have happened.
But instructor or not, the lesson appears clearly. The future of healthcare will belong not just to those who discover the next breakthrough molecule; but to those who understand how humans actually change.
And boutique fitness, spinning loudly in dark rooms across the country, is quietly teaching that lesson every day.
