From Backstage to the Yoga Mat: How the Gig Economy Exploits Its Artists, Rock Stars, and Healers Alike

By Leslii Stevens ERYT500, YACEP, Trauma-Informed Yoga Teacher

From the roar of the crowd to the quiet hum of the yoga mat, the gig hustle follows you.


When the house lights dim and the crowd roars, you don’t think about the photographer crouched between the security rail and the stage, sweating under the weight of two to four camera bodies and a bunch of lens and one the size of a small bazooka. You don’t think about how they will spend the next 48 hours in a hotel room, cramped bus or the venue at the next gig editing thousands of images, color-correcting each one until the guitars gleam and the smoke machines look cinematic. You don’t think about invoices, payment terms, or contracts that quietly shift ownership of those images.


You certainly don’t think about the fact that many of those photos, the ones that end up on tour posters, merch tables, and social media accounts with millions of followers, were never paid for at all.


I do. I lived it.

Unpaid invoices and tour passes — the rock photographer’s version of confetti.


The First Act: Rock and Roll Roulette


For years, I worked as an Independent Photographer in the music industry, embedded with bands that filled arenas, clues and stadium. My camera and I were there for blistering guitar solos, quiet backstage moments, and the thunder of a crowd’s collective heartbeat. It was a dream job, until you looked at the balance sheet.


In the Wild West of touring, invoices vanish into black holes. A handshake deal, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you” turns into six months of chasing emails from accountants you’ve never met. Meanwhile, your work circulates the globe. It’s printed on t-shirts. It’s in glossy tour programs sold for $35 a pop. It’s splashed across Instagram, earning likes, followers, and brand value for everyone but you.


In one year alone, I lost more than I made. Entire galleries of my images were used for marketing campaigns without a single cent of payment or credit. The calculation for those in power is simple: Independent Contractors don’t have a union, legal resources cost more than the fee, and the next hungry creative is waiting in the wings.


Eventually, I had to walk away, not because I wanted to stop photographing music, but because the financial and emotional toll had gutted me. I was burnt out, broke, and disillusioned.


I turned to yoga, thinking I was pivoting into a gentler, more ethical industry.


Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.


The Second Act: The Myth of the Mindful Workplace


If the music industry bleeds you dry through glamour and adrenaline, the wellness industry does it through incense and good intentions.

Yoga teaching: a mindful practice with a side of unpaid labor


I trained to become a yoga teacher. I learned anatomy, trauma-informed teaching, and the philosophies of mindfulness and compassion. I believed, naively, that this was a space where people valued connection over profit.


Instead, I found myself back in the same exploitative loop. Studios hire teachers as “Independent Contractors,” a legal classification that means they can avoid providing health insurance, paid time off, or any of the labor protections that employees get. You’re paid per class, not per hour, which means unpaid labor for class planning, playlist building, cleaning the space, and even social media promotion.


Many studios pay rates that haven’t budged in a decade, $25 to $35 for a class, regardless of prep time or student count, while expecting teachers to also “bring their own clientele.” In some cases, you make less than the gas it took to get there.


And just like in the music industry, ownership of your work, whether that’s a signature class sequence, a filmed session, or your own image, is often taken without clear consent. Photos of you teaching may end up on a studio’s website or ad campaign, long after you’ve stopped working there, without payment or even acknowledgment.


It’s gig work in stretchy pants.

Different tools, same struggle.


The Structural Problem: Different Stages, Same Script


On the surface, rock photographers and yoga teachers live in different worlds. One is fueled by sweat, beer, and amplifiers; the other by breath, soft lighting, and essential oils. But structurally, the exploitation is identical:


Independent Contractor Classification → Saves the company money by avoiding payroll taxes, benefits, and legal protections.


Lack of Unionization → Workers are isolated, replaceable, and have no collective bargaining power.


Portfolio Hunger → New workers are willing to accept low or no pay “for exposure,” undercutting the entire market.


Intellectual Property Theft → Creative and educational content is reused, repackaged, and monetized without fair compensation.


Nonexistent Enforcement → Legal recourse is expensive, slow, and often impossible without resources.



Both industries thrive on the romance of the work itself. Being “on tour” or being “a yoga teacher” is sold as a lifestyle, a calling, something so inherently fulfilling that you should feel lucky to do it at all. That romance is a convenient cover for labor abuse.


The Human Cost


This isn’t just about money. It’s about dignity.


In the music world, I watched talented photographers burn out, sell their gear, and leave creative work entirely. In yoga, I’ve seen brilliant teachers, the kind who could change your life in a single class, leave the industry because they couldn’t make rent.

Passion doesn’t pay the bills. Burnout doesn’t wait.


And when workers are constantly in survival mode, the art and the teaching both suffer. Creativity contracts under financial strain. Compassion curdles into cynicism. The industries lose not just individual talent, but the richness and diversity that comes from artists and teachers who can afford to stay in the work long enough to grow.


The Curtain Call


We’re living in a gig economy that treats workers as infinitely replaceable. Whether you’re wearing a backstage pass or a mala necklace, the structure is designed to extract maximum value from your labor while giving you the bare minimum in return.


Change will not come from the top down. It will have to come from collective action, through organizing, public exposure of exploitative practices, and refusing to accept “that’s just how it is” as an answer.


Because here’s the truth: artists and healers aren’t interchangeable parts. We are very much a part of the heartbeat of these industries. Without us, the amps go silent. The mats stay empty.


And we deserve more than gratitude and exposure. We deserve to be paid.

Without us, the amps go silent. The mats stay empty.