MAIS 602

Phenomenology

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Phenomenology, first developed by Edmund Husserl, is often described as a philosophy of returning to lived experience. It asks us to set aside preconceptions and look carefully at how things appear to consciousness, to go, as Husserl said, “back to the things themselves” (Moran, 2000, p. 4). His teacher, Franz Brentano, had introduced the idea of intentionality, suggesting that every act of consciousness is directed toward something (Moran, 2000). Husserl expanded on this concept, developing a method for exploring how meaning takes shape in our awareness. Later thinkers like Heidegger, Sartre, and Merleau-Ponty expanded phenomenology by linking consciousness to being and everyday experience, showing how our sense of self is shaped through the way we live, move, and perceive the world (Moran, 2000).

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Phenomenology stood out to me more than other methods because it does not start by searching for meaning; it asks us to pause and notice what is happening before we label or explain it (Moran, 2000). It is about paying attention to experience as it happens, before we fit it into neat categories or theories. That idea struck me because so much of life today is measured and compared: steps, calories, followers, likes. Wellness, especially online, is often treated like something that can be tracked through numbers (Ajana, 2017). Phenomenology challenges that mindset. It slows things down and reminds us that understanding does not always come from data. Sometimes it comes from the quiet, personal details we tend to overlook; how something feels in the moment, what it reveals about us, and even what it keeps hidden.

Limits

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As Unit 3 progressed and as I kept learning, I realized that phenomenology alone could not take me as far as I needed to go. My research question was not only about what wellness feels like. It was also about how certain feelings, languages, and images get produced, circulated, and normalized. Phenomenology helped me notice the layers within wellness narratives, but it cannot fully unpack the power structures behind them.

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This realization made me think more critically about what “fit” means in research. At first, I believed methodology had to align perfectly with my topic, almost like a matching exercise, but now I see it more as an evolving relationship. The more I learn about my question, the more the method reshapes itself around it. I also began to see that phenomenology has its limits. As hermeneutic thinkers like Gadamer remind us, all understanding is interpretive; we never approach experience as blank slates. Our perceptions are already shaped by language, culture, and history, because, as Gadamer notes, “understanding is interpretation and vice versa,” with language acting as “the medium for understanding and a means of sharing the complexities of human experience” (Regan, 2012, p. 286). What began as curiosity about lived experience became an understanding that meaning takes shape through the language and stories we share within our environment (Subba, 2019). That shift was what moved me toward integrating methods rather than replacing one with another.

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Integrating CDA and Narrative Inquiry

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That realization shifted my focus toward combining methodologies. Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA) and Narrative Inquiry filled in what phenomenology left open, allowing me to trace both the ideological structures and the human stories that keep those structures alive.

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CDA helped me put into words what I had already been feeling. Phrases like “You are your only limit” or “Discipline is self-love” are not neutral; they disguise neoliberal ideas about personal responsibility in the language that sounds empowering (Badr, n.d). These messages suggest freedom but quietly (and subtly) shift systemic pressures onto individuals, making self-care feel like something we owe rather than something we choose (Badr, n.d). CDA helps me see how wellness culture moralizes productivity and repackages control as choice.

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That is where Foucault (1998) helped me think differently. Power, he reminds us, is not just top-down; it is relational, productive, and constantly circulating (Foucault, 1998). We participate in it. We reproduce it. We reshape it. So rather than viewing wellness discourse as a one-way ideological trap, I began to see it as a space of negotiation, where people sometimes reinforce dominant values and other times subtly bend them. For example, when someone posts a “no excuses” workout video but pairs it with a caption about listening to their body, they are both reinforcing and resisting the dominant wellness narrative. The post still values self-improvement, but it also softens the message, making room for self-compassion and choice. In that way, they are participating in the discourse while also reshaping it.

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Narrative Inquiry then gave me a way to study how those interactions appear in stories. As Ogata (2020) suggests, narratives organize experience both individually and socially. Wellness stories on social media often follow familiar patterns such as moving from breakdown/burnout to balance/recovery. A post that says, “Last year I was struggling, but now I have learned to love myself,” is not just personal reflection; it is a cultural performance of transformation that fits a broader narrative of self-management and growth (Ashley, 2016). However, people also reshape those stories, sometimes with irony or humour, showing that even the most polished wellness messages leave space for personal choice and quiet resistance.

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Phenomenology still sits quietly beneath all of this for me, not as my primary method, but as a stance. It reminds me to pay attention to how wellness is both experienced and expressed, and to the subtle feelings that give these messages their power (Moran, 2000). CDA helps me explore what those feelings serve; Narrative Inquiry helps me understand how people live them. Together, they offer a fuller picture of the interplay between ideology and lived experience.

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I have learned that methodology is like a toolkit. You might have a Robertson screwdriver, but you cannot build an entire piece of furniture with just that one tool. It might get you through most of the work, but eventually, you need others to finish the job. Research feels the same way; no single method can do it all, but each contributes something essential to the overall structure. Phenomenology is grounded in lived experience; CDA reveals how meaning is shaped by power; and narrative Inquiry shows how meaning is created and shared through story. Hermeneutics, as mentioned earlier, reminds me to stay attentive, to remain aware that interpretation is never neutral but always influenced by who we are, what we bring, and the context we are in.

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This multi-method approach also mirrors what I see in practice. In my professional work, wellness initiatives often rely on both qualitative stories and measurable outcomes, yet the most meaningful insights often appear in the space between the two. Phenomenology reminds me to slow down and listen to lived experiences; CDA helps me understand how those experiences are framed; and narrative Inquiry shows how they are retold and reshaped across platforms. Together, they create a language of nuance and depth; a more complete way of understanding how wellness is both lived and constructed.

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If I had stayed with phenomenology alone, I would have missed how wellness discourse circulates and gains authority. By weaving different methodologies together, I can explore not only what wellness feels like, but how it functions within larger systems of meaning and power.

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After creating a methodology grid with the help of AI and reading my classmates’ reflections, I realized that every method could, in some way, fit my research question. Even those that seemed off base at first, like Arts-Based Research, connect when I think about wellness discourse through visual and emotional expression. For example, the images and videos shared on Instagram or Facebook often show specific ideas about control and balance. These visuals aren’t just about style, they communicate ideas about wellness. For example, a simple boho or clean look can give off a feeling of wealth and success. This realization reminded me that methods are like tools in a toolbox, each one serving a purpose and sometimes working together in unexpected ways to reveal new layers of meaning.

Will I use aspects of different methodologies in my essay? Absolutely. Will it be obvious? Likely so, but perhaps not explicitly. It’s become less of a method I use and more of a way of thinking; one that keeps me focused on the people behind the data, the emotions behind the words, and the real experiences behind the stories we tell about being well.

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Current Research Question

How does wellness discourse on social media normalize distinct value systems through the language and stories it produces?