The Dishwasher Hose
In the winter of 1978, on the third floor of a Victorian house in Austin, Texas, a twenty-five-year-old college dropout and his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend were bathing with the spray attachment of a Hobart commercial dishwasher. The building was zoned commercial—no shower stall, no bathtub, no lease provision for human habitation. They had been evicted from their apartment for storing bags of flour and brown rice in the living room, inventory for the tiny natural-foods store they ran on the ground floor below, and rather than find new housing they simply moved upstairs, converting their bedroom to a daytime office and descending each morning into the smell of bulk grains and nutritional yeast. The store was called SaferWay, a pun on the grocery giant Safeway that managed to be both cheeky and earnest. They had scraped together $45,000 from friends and family. In the first year they lost $23,000. The girlfriend, Renee Lawson, was twenty-one. The boyfriend, John Mackey, owned nothing of particular value except an idea—vague, unformed, more feeling than business plan—that Americans might want to eat differently, and that someone might make a living helping them do so.
Forty-four years later, when Mackey finally stepped down as CEO of the company that SaferWay became, Whole Foods Market operated 540 stores across three countries, employed more than 105,000 people, and generated over $22 billion in annual revenue. Amazon had purchased it in 2017 for $13.7 billion. The dishwasher-hose story had long since calcified into corporate lore, trotted out at shareholder meetings and commencement speeches with the practiced warmth of a creation myth. But it is worth lingering on the image—the spray of lukewarm water, the improvised domesticity, the radical unseriousness of two young people who didn't know what they couldn't do—because everything that followed can be understood as a tension between that original impulse and the vast institutional machinery it eventually produced. Between the hippie and the empire. Between the man who bathed in a dishwasher and the man who sold his company to the largest retailer on earth.
The question that Mackey's life poses, and never quite resolves, is whether those two men are the same person.
By the Numbers
The Whole Foods Empire
$45,000Startup capital from friends and family (1978)
540Stores at time of Mackey's retirement (2022)
$22B+Annual revenue at peak under Mackey
$13.7BAmazon acquisition price (2017)
$1Mackey's annual salary from 2006 onward
19xMaximum salary ratio: highest-paid to average worker
44 yearsMackey's tenure as CEO
The Carnivorous State
To understand Mackey you have to understand Austin, and to understand Austin you have to understand that it is not Texas, or at least not the Texas of popular imagination. In the 1970s it was cheap, small, groovy—a pocket of countercultural ferment in an otherwise carnivorous state. There was no Dell, no Intel, no AMD. The dominant cultural export was the cosmic cowboy, the dope-smoking redneck. The University of Texas sprawled across the center of town, radiating a force field of philosophy seminars, housing co-ops, and young people who had read just enough Eastern religion to be dangerous. Into this ecosystem in the early 1970s drifted John Mackey, born August 15, 1953, in Houston, the son of a Rice University accounting professor named Bill Mackey and a mother who had given up school teaching to raise three children in conventional middle-class comfort.
Bill Mackey was, by all accounts, a domineering dinner-table debater and an occasionally wounding plain-speaker—traits his son would inherit with the faithfulness of a genetic transcript. When John was sixteen, in 1969, Bill left academia to become CEO of a health-care company that would eventually sell, fifteen years later, for nearly a billion dollars. He was the first investor in Whole Foods. He served on its board. He was the best man at his son's wedding and, until John was well into his late thirties, the presiding object of his efforts to succeed and please. People who watched them interact observed a conspicuous inheritance of certain qualities—the argumentative intensity, the directness that could curdle into cruelty—and an equally conspicuous struggle to lay sole claim to them. Bill Mackey died in 2004, after suffering from Alzheimer's.
John's mother died earlier, in 1987, and their final conversation has become one of Mackey's most-told stories, told with the rueful precision of a man who has turned regret into parable. "The last thing she asked me," Mackey has recounted, "she said, 'John, promise me you'll go back to school and get a college degree.' I said, 'Mom, I'm not going back to school. I'm doing Whole Foods.' She said, 'I wish you'd just give up that stupid health-food store. Your father and I gave you a fine mind, and you're wasting it being a grocer.'" That was their final exchange. "She died thinking that I was a failure and that I didn't love her," Mackey has said. "Why put your mother through that on her deathbed? I wish I could take that back."
At the time, Whole Foods had five stores. His mother had no way of knowing what it would become. But the wound of that conversation—the pride masquerading as honesty, the honesty that served ego better than love—would reverberate through decades of Mackey's leadership, his spiritual seeking, his eventual embrace of forgiveness as a management philosophy. It is the primal scene of a man who would spend his life arguing, brilliantly and compulsively, and who would learn only slowly, and never completely, that being right is not the same as being good.
The Education of a Non-Student
Mackey was an indifferent high-school student, a late bloomer, and a fanatic about basketball, science fiction, and girls. Before his senior year he was cut from the varsity team, and he persuaded his parents to move—to uproot the entire household—so he could switch schools and play. "That changed my life," he has said, "because for the first time I realized that if you didn't like the hand you were dealt you didn't just have to feel sorry for yourself. You could do something about it." It is a quintessentially Mackey story: the refusal to accept constraints, the willingness to conscript others into the project of his own becoming.
He enrolled at Trinity University in San Antonio, and the world detonated. "I was reading a lot of philosophy and religion," he has recalled, with the careful vagueness of a man who knows what his audience can handle. "And I did a lot of those experiments that young people do when they're in college. I'll not name those." He has been more candid elsewhere: a tab of LSD at nineteen, he has said, "knocked me off my life path" of becoming a doctor or lawyer. "I had an awakening to the fact that there's a deeper spiritual reality." He quit playing basketball. For the next several years he bounced between Trinity and the University of Texas, taking only courses that interested him—philosophy, religion, world literature, history, psychology—and therefore hardly advancing toward a degree. He accumulated roughly 120 credit hours and no diploma, a record of omnivorous intellectual appetite and systematic institutional defiance.
He settled in Austin. He worked part-time as a dishwasher. He spent his nights reading in the library, ten or twelve hours at a stretch. He had a beard and long bushy hair. Eventually, around age twenty-two or twenty-three, he moved into a co-ed vegetarian collective called Prana House.
"I had no interest in a vegetarian life style," Mackey has admitted with a candor that has the quality of a well-rehearsed confession. "But what I was interested in was alternative life styles. And I thought, honestly, that I'd meet a lot of interesting women. And I did."
He met Renee Lawson. He learned to cook. He became the food buyer for the co-op. And something happened—something that Mackey describes with the reverence others reserve for religious conversion. "I loved it," he has said. "I loved retail. I loved being around food. I loved natural foods. I loved organic foods. I loved the whole idea of it. And a thought entered into my mind that maybe this is what I could do." A college dropout who had never taken a business class, who had been reading Plato and dropping acid, who had moved into a vegetarian co-op to meet women, had accidentally discovered his vocation. The résumé, as he likes to tell it, runs: "Dishwasher, busboy, CEO of Whole Foods Market."
The Flood and the Stakeholders
SaferWay was strictly vegetarian. Even the cat was vegetarian. They didn't sell sugar, white flour, alcohol, coffee, or tea. "And the result of that," Mackey has observed, laughing, "was we just didn't do very much business." The store was too small, too pure, too ascetic—a temple rather than a marketplace. After two years of marginal survival, Mackey approached Craig Weller and Mark Skiles, owners of a competing natural-foods shop called Clarksville Natural Grocery, about merging. He persuaded them in part, as he later acknowledged, by implying that if they didn't merge he might put them out of business. On September 20, 1980, the four of them—Mackey, Lawson, Weller, Skiles—opened the first Whole Foods Market in a former nightclub at 914 North Lamar Boulevard.
It was 10,500 square feet, enormous by natural-foods standards. They had a staff of nineteen. And they made a decision that would prove fateful: in contravention of the co-op ethos, they stocked meat, beer, and wine alongside the lentils and granola. They filled empty shelf space with five-gallon bottles of distilled water to disguise how sparse the inventory was. The idea was to go beyond the movement's old tofu severity, the air of judgment and self-abnegation that had kept natural foods confined to a cultural cul-de-sac. "We realized," Skiles later said, "that if we have guys who come in to buy a bag of sprouts and then sit around all day reading we'll go out of business quick. You need people to shop, to have the inclination to push a cart around and fill it up."
Skiles—who left the company in the mid-eighties after friction with Mackey ("It became clear I was less my own boss than I'd expected to be," he told The New Yorker) and who now runs a pizza shop in Austin called Pizza Nizza—understood the commercial imperative. So did Mackey, who would later describe the hiring philosophy of those early days with characteristic bluntness: Skiles "became famous for hiring gorgeous women as cashiers. Hey, that's what we were selling: vitality and sensuality." ("That's not my recollection," Mackey said when confronted with Skiles's version.)
The store was an immediate, improbable success. "People were so excited about this first store," Mackey has recalled. "The word of mouth was incredible. The whole Austin counter-culture hippie community knew about it immediately." Within six months they were doing over $200,000 a week in sales. Mackey likes to say the store became profitable "about two o'clock in the afternoon" on its first day.
Then, on Memorial Day 1981, Austin experienced its worst flood in seventy years. The store sat in what real-estate agents call the hundred-year flood zone. ("The landlord said, 'Well, John, it means that about once every hundred years you're going to be eight feet under water,'" Mackey has recalled. "'I'll take those odds.' Problem is, we had the hundred-year flood in the first year.") Eight feet of water inundated the store. The inventory was destroyed. The equipment was ruined. Losses totaled approximately $400,000. They had no insurance.
What happened next became the founding parable of Whole Foods Market—its Exodus, its Mayflower Compact. The morning after the flood, Mackey showed up to a wreck. His employees were already there, working for free to clean up the damage. And then he noticed faces he recognized but who didn't work for him. They were customers. They had heard what happened and came to help. Suppliers fronted new inventory on credit. Investors put in more capital. A banker personally guaranteed a $100,000 loan. The store reopened twenty-eight days later.
"Whole Foods should have died in our first year," Mackey has said, "and I didn't have the word for it back then, but the stakeholders saved us." The flood gave him a philosophy. Not the abstraction of stakeholder theory as taught in business schools, but the lived experience of interdependence—customers and employees and suppliers and investors all behaving as though the survival of this store, this particular and peculiar enterprise, mattered to them personally. "I got the stakeholder philosophy at the time that we were really about the stakeholders," he has said. "We wanted to pay them all back."
It also gave him a healthy respect for geography. "I've always paid a lot of attention to flood zones ever since then," he has noted. "We've not gone back into a flood zone area."
Pax Austinia
Growth followed the pattern of a coral reef: organic accretion through acquisition, each absorbed entity contributing its particular wisdom to the collective organism. Two more stores in Austin, then Houston and Dallas. In 1988, the purchase of a store in New Orleans called, of all things, Whole Food Company—settling a question of nomenclature that might otherwise have required lawyers. Its owner, Peter Roy, became the company's first president. (Roy's later departure would be "particularly contentious," and he would decline to comment on the record about Mackey for years afterward.)
Next came Palo Alto, which happened to be adjacent to a great deal of venture capital. Mackey and his partners spent months working Sand Hill Road. Of the twelve venture capitalists they pitched, all but three turned them down. "One of them said one day," Mackey has recalled, "'You know, I really think you're just selling hippie food to hippies. I gotta tell ya that I don't think it's gonna work. But if it does work, Safeway's gonna just steal it from you and you're not going to be able to exist anyway.'" Mackey, for one, always feared that Safeway or some other giant would do exactly that. For a long time, it did not.
The company went public in 1992, after the successful launch of a Chicago store the previous year. The IPO was a revelation. "By the end of the first trading afternoon, Whole Foods Market was valued at $100 million," Mackey later wrote. "Even though my shares had been diluted over the years, my own net worth was now over $7 million. I was rich. How did that happen?" He drove home slowly, opened a beer, and sat on his porch thinking about the Victorian house and the dishwasher hose.
I thought back to that little Victorian House, where Safer Way had begun and the modest dreams of success that Renee and I had shared as we woke up each morning on the top floor, took our showers in the dishwasher and converted our bedroom to its daytime form as the store's office.
Then began what you might call Pax Austinia—a systematic campaign of acquisition that absorbed the scattered tribes of America's natural-foods movement into a single expanding empire. In 1991, Wellspring Grocery of North Carolina, whose co-owner Lex Alexander stayed on to build the private-label business. In 1992, Bread & Circus of Massachusetts, whose owner Tony Harnett was renowned for procurement of seafood. In 1993, Mrs. Gooch's of Southern California, and with it Sandy Gooch and her expertise in diet supplements and meat merchandising. Then Fresh Fields on the East Coast and Midwest in 1996, Bread of Life in Florida in 1997, Merchant of Vino in Michigan the same year, Harry's Farmers Market in Atlanta in 2001. And on. And on.
Each acquisition enriched what had been, by Mackey's own admission, a fairly clumsy enterprise. "For all his curiosity and drive," Nick Paumgarten wrote in The New Yorker, "Mackey was not an expert grocer." He was something else—a synthesizer, an absorber, a man whose genius lay not in the technical details of retail but in the ability to see, before almost anyone else, the commercial potential of a cultural shift. Of all the grocers who came to Whole Foods through acquisitions, only one remained by 2010: Walter Robb.
Robb—a tall and fit Bostonian who had gone west to Stanford in the early seventies, discovered Wendell Berry and back-to-the-land living in Trinity County, California, and eventually opened a natural-foods store in Mill Valley that Whole Foods bought in 1991 (it was store No. 11)—would become co-president and chief operating officer. When asked about Mackey, a look of something like temperance—a flash of mirth—would cross Robb's face. "I would write about him being the guy who, at these sort of inflection points that every business faces, seems to show up with ideas that are original and thoughtful and attuned to the moment." He divided Mackey's contributions into three categories: "true-ups, let-gos, and big steps."
The Auteur CEO
Mackey is an example of what you might call the auteur CEO. Like
Steve Jobs, whose personality was so thoroughly entwined with Apple's that the company's products seemed to emanate from his central nervous system, Mackey's mind was turned inside out and displayed on shelves. A Whole Foods store, in some respects,
was Mackey's mind—his contradictions, his trespasses, his enthusiasms, whatever he happened to be reading and eating, or not eating. One Austin resident and Central Market partisan described the flagship store beneath company headquarters with blunt admiration: "The store is a reflection of Mackey's personality. It has a fuck-you layout."
He didn't bother with day-to-day operations. He wasn't a technician or a face man. When asked what it was he did, exactly, he described a kind of philosopher-king who brought big ideas to bear. He sat in his study in a recliner surrounded by stacks of books, marking them with underlinings, highlighter, and Post-it notes. When a journalist once asked what he was reading, he named half a dozen titles, then had a press person send over a list of thirteen. Biographies of Booker T. Washington, Peter Drucker, Ayn Rand. Critiques of Keynes. Books about "bourgeois virtues," "integral consciousness," health-care reform, fasting, and basketball.
Pride and Prejudice. ("I've gotten old enough so that my masculinity is not in question.")
His reading was not decorative. It was operational. Ideas entered his mind and exited through the company's stores. In 2001, he came across a book called Beyond Backpacking by Ray Jardine, the father of ultralight hiking—the discipline of selecting gear of nearly unimaginable low weight. He got his pack down to around twelve pounds. He talked the board into granting him a five-month sabbatical to hike the Appalachian Trail. His trail name was Strider. Eventually he bought a controlling interest in a company called Gossamer Gear and reduced his pack weight to under seven pounds. "Ultralight hiking is, in some respects, like the grocery business," Paumgarten observed: "each requires strict attention to inventory and a fondness for a slog."
In 2009, he encountered Rip Esselstyn's The Engine 2 Diet—basically, you eat plants; you are a rabbit with a skillet—and promptly lost fifteen pounds. This personal dietary conversion dovetailed with a recession that had left shoppers unable to afford Whole Foods' fancier offerings, and Mackey, in what Paumgarten called "a stroke of corporate transubstantiation," declared that Whole Foods would go on a diet too. Fewer organic potato chips, more actual potatoes. He told the Wall Street Journal in August 2009: "We sell a bunch of junk." The repudiation was rash, since the stores would still be selling junk, of a kind. But it was pure Mackey—the personal conviction transmuted into corporate strategy, the CEO's body and the corporate body becoming one.
The compensation structure reflected a similar idiosyncrasy. Mackey paid himself a dollar a year beginning in 2006. He capped the maximum salary at nineteen times what the average team member made. (For comparison, the average S&P 500 CEO at the time earned roughly 319 times what a production worker did.) He donated all his stock options. He flew commercial. He drove a Honda Civic hybrid. He owned houses in Boulder and Austin and a 720-acre non-working ranch outside town where he and his wife Deborah—an adherent of Sufism whom he married in the early 1990s—spent weekends. They were childless, which gave them the luxury of leading what Mackey described as "separate lives, in addition to a life together."
I am fulfilling my inner desires, in terms of reaching my fullest potential as a human being. I became a grocer.
The Right-Wing Hippie
The most perplexing thing about John Mackey—the thing that made him, as Paumgarten put it, "a rare bird"—was the politics. The man who had perhaps done more than anyone to bring the natural-foods movement from the crunchy fringe into the mainstream was also a vocal libertarian, an orthodox free-marketer, an admirer of Milton Friedman, Ronald Reagan, and Ayn Rand. In the 2008 presidential election, he voted for Bob Barr. Ron Paul wasn't on the ballot.
The transformation had happened early and emphatically. As a young man in Austin in the mid-seventies, Mackey's politics had been conventionally progressive—"liberal, progressive, social democratic," as he later described it. "That was the air that I breathed." He lived in housing co-ops. He was a member of three food co-ops. He thought business was fundamentally selfish and greedy. Then he started a business. "What I believed about business was proven to be wrong," he has said. "We didn't have any coercive power. Everybody that traded with us did so voluntarily." The co-ops, meanwhile, struck him as politicized and more interested in which companies to boycott than in creating a good customer experience. The readings of Friedrich Hayek, Ludwig von Mises, and the Austrian economists followed naturally.
The result was a worldview that most people found genuinely confounding. Here was a man who championed organic farming, humane animal treatment, and environmental sustainability—and who also believed that government should stay out of health care, that unions were "like having herpes" (a quote he made in the early eighties that, to his dismay, would not die), and that climate change was not settled science. "Historically," he told The New Yorker in 2010, with a candor you could call bold or reckless, "prosperity tends to correlate to warmer temperatures."
His customers, who tended to be urban, educated, and liberal—Whole Foods placed new stores based partly on the number of college graduates within a sixteen-minute drive—were either oblivious to or dimly aware of these views until August 2009, when Mackey published an op-ed in the
Wall Street Journal asserting that the government should not be in the business of providing health care. The headline—"THE WHOLE FOODS ALTERNATIVE TO OBAMACARE"—was the
Journal's, Mackey says, but the sentiments were his. He led with an epigram attributed to
Margaret Thatcher: "The problem with socialism is that eventually you run out of other people's money."
In no time, liberals were organizing boycotts of Whole Foods. Right-wingers staged retaliatory "buy-cotts." Mackey had thrown tinder on the long-smoldering suspicion, in some quarters, that he was a profiteer in do-gooder disguise—that he, and therefore Whole Foods, was in some way insincere or even counterfeit.
"I was so viciously attacked for two reasons," Mackey told Paumgarten. "One is that people had an idea in their minds about the way Whole Foods was. So when I articulated a capitalistic interpretation of what needed to be done in health care, that was disappointing to some people." He begrudged the extent to which people had projected onto Whole Foods an unrealistic vision. "The C.E.O. of Safeway, Steven Burd, wrote an op-ed piece in June advocating, basically, market solutions to the health-care problem, and nobody gave a shit."
Of course, Whole Foods had always held itself up as a paragon of virtue. The company had seven "core values." It claimed to be, as Mackey often said, "a mission-based business." Its claim to righteousness was, in many respects, its unique selling point. You cannot build a brand on moral superiority and then be surprised when people expect moral consistency. Mackey understood this intellectually. He simply couldn't help himself.
"He's a ready-aim-fire guy, and he's not real disciplined in how he speaks his mind," Gary Hirshberg, then CEO of Stonyfield, the organic milk and yogurt producer, observed. "He has a really hard time reconciling his public and private selves." And then, with a note of genuine admiration: "John has that Clintonesque ability to hang in there. He is Whole Foods management's greatest asset but also, at times, its greatest challenge."
Rahodeb and the Shadow Self
Before the health-care op-ed there was rahodeb. For nearly eight years—from the late 1990s through 2006—Mackey had been secretly logging onto a Yahoo Finance message board devoted to Whole Foods stock under the pseudonym "rahodeb," an anagram of Deborah, his wife's name. Under this alias he praised his own company, disparaged Wild Oats (a competitor Whole Foods was attempting to acquire), and threw in the occasional flattering personal remark: "I think he looks cute!" he wrote of himself.
When the SEC discovered the postings in 2007—amid the Bush Administration's uncharacteristic spasm of antitrust vigilance over the Wild Oats merger—the revelation recast Mackey, for years a media and stock-market darling, as a monopolist, a fruitcake, and a sneak. The share price fell. The government eventually let the Wild Oats deal stand (with concessions) and gave the sock puppetry a pass, but many wondered how Mackey managed to hold on to his job.
The rahodeb episode is instructive less as a scandal than as a window into Mackey's psychology. Here was a man so deeply identified with his company that he could not resist defending it even anonymously, even pseudonymously, even under the name of his own wife rearranged. The boundary between Mackey and Whole Foods had always been porous; rahodeb erased it entirely. The philosopher-king had become an internet troll.
During this period, Mackey sought succor in spiritual practice. He engaged a friend, a follower of the Czech transpersonal psychologist Stanislav Grof, to guide him through a session of holotropic breathing. "I had this very powerful session, very powerful. It lasted about two hours," Mackey later recounted. "I was having a dialogue with what I would define as my deeper self, or my higher self." He had a pair of epiphanies. The first involved severed relationships that needed healing. The second was that "if I wanted to continue to do Whole Foods, there couldn't be any part of my life that was secretive or hidden or that I'd be embarrassed [about] if people found out about it. I had to let go of all of that. I'm this public figure now."
The timing is almost too neat—the secret internet persona exposed, the breathing exercise that produces a revelation about transparency. But the pattern is genuine and recurrent in Mackey's life: crisis, introspection, philosophical reframing, renewed commitment. It is the cycle of a man who experiences the world primarily through ideas and who, when reality delivers a blow, reaches not for a lawyer or a publicist but for a book.
The Omnivore's Dilemma
The question of whether Whole Foods was, in some fundamental sense, a phony was not limited to Mackey's internet alter ego. In 2006, Michael Pollan published The Omnivore's Dilemma, in which he argued that the impression left by Whole Foods' pastoral displays was misleading. The word "organic," as applied to much of what the stores sold, often meant the food came from gigantic monocultural operations owned by big conglomerates—operations that abided by the letter but not the spirit of the term. Pollan's specimen was asparagus, flown in January from Argentina. It was organic by USDA standards (which a Whole Foods executive had helped devise), but it had traveled six thousand miles and tasted like cardboard. The irony was that Whole Foods, in lifting one veil from the food industry, was complicit in replacing it with another. Pollan called Whole Foods' brand of storytelling—the photographs of fishermen by the seafood counter, the descriptions of bucolic farms—"supermarket pastoral."
Mackey was furious. When Pollan came to Austin for a reading at a bookstore that Mackey partly owned, Mackey requested a meeting. They talked for hours. Mackey handed Pollan a five-page single-spaced letter, which he then posted on his website. Pollan wrote a lengthy response. For months they carried on a public exchange of polemics that culminated in an onstage debate in Berkeley. The upshot was that Mackey acknowledged certain shortcomings and vowed changes—greater commitments to local farming and grass-fed beef.
But he also chafed at Pollan's exaltation of the small. "America has kind of a love affair with small business," Mackey observed. "A local farmer is a businessman. He's selling stuff. But he has apparently not been corrupted. He's still small, he's still pure. But at some point, if he was to grow, he would cross over. People used to think Whole Foods was cute and cuddly, and now we're this industrial, pastoral, organic monster that cares only about money."
This complaint contains within it a genuine paradox—the paradox of Whole Foods itself. The company's mission required scale: you could not transform the American food system with a single store in Austin. But scale brought compromise: the Argentine asparagus, the industrial organic, the chocolate-enrobing fountain where you could have anything dipped in chocolate, even salmon. The stores used "dummies"—wooden or cardboard devices hidden under mounds of produce to create the illusion of greater supply. Supermarket Wonderbras. A weekend grocery bill could easily run to four hundred dollars. Whole Foods was Whole Paycheck, and the nickname stung precisely because it contained a truth the company's marketing was designed to obscure: that eating well in America was, to a significant degree, a luxury.
"We got caught up a little in the foodie stuff of the nineties," Robb admitted. "We have in some ways contributed to the feeling that this is not something that people can afford, or it's not accessible to them, or it's over-the-top. We have our share of responsibility in that."
Conscious Capitalism and Its Discontents
By the early 2010s, Mackey had formalized his philosophy into something approaching a movement. He called it "conscious capitalism," and in 2013, with Babson professor Raj Sisodia, he published
Conscious Capitalism: Liberating the Heroic Spirit of Business—a book whose title alone was sufficient to provoke either admiration or nausea, depending on your priors.
The argument was not subtle but it was coherent. Business, Mackey contended, should have a higher purpose beyond maximizing shareholder value. Companies should create value for all stakeholders—customers, employees, suppliers, investors, communities, the environment—simultaneously. The old Friedmanite orthodoxy that the sole social responsibility of business was to increase its profits was, in Mackey's view, not merely wrong but self-defeating. Profit was to a company what red blood cells were to a body: necessary for survival but not a purpose for existence. Doctors heal. Teachers educate. Architects design. Businesspeople should be after something besides money.
The philosophy rested on four pillars: higher purpose, stakeholder integration, conscious leadership, and conscious culture. Mackey practiced what he preached, or at least a version of it. The $1 salary. The compensation cap. The team-based structure that gave individual stores and regions unusual autonomy. The Whole Planet Foundation, which funded microloans to entrepreneurs in developing nations. The Global Animal Partnership's rating system for humane farm-animal treatment, which Mackey had championed after animal-rights activists staged a protest over duck at a 2003 shareholder meeting—a protest that had led him first to examine the meat business more closely, and then to become a vegan himself.
Critics from the left regarded conscious capitalism as an elaborate rationalization for doing nothing about structural inequality—a way to make the rich feel good about being rich while forestalling the regulatory and redistributive measures that might actually change things. Critics from the right saw it as a dangerous concession to progressive pieties, an undermining of shareholders' rightful control. Mackey was aware of the crossfire. "Shareholder capitalists are attacking it because they believe it's undermining the control of business by the owners," he said in 2024. "And anti-capitalists are trying to weaponize it to take power away from the investors."
The most incisive critique, though, was psychological rather than ideological. It came from Paumgarten, who observed that Mackey's belief in the power of the individual was so strong that blame fell on individuals too. "In his view, it tends to be the fault of the unhealthy or fat person that he or she is unhealthy or fat. People just need to eat better." The logic extended seamlessly: because Mackey ran his company well, others could and should; therefore the safeguards that had evolved over generations to protect against human venality—unions, government health care, regulation—were unnecessary. "The logic is as sound," Paumgarten wrote, "as the presumption is preposterous."
It is the blind spot of the self-made man: the inability to imagine that not everyone possesses, or can acquire, his particular blend of enlightenment and self-interest. Mackey's favorite Maslow, whose hierarchy of needs he cited often, would have appreciated the irony: a man who had achieved self-actualization and could not understand why everyone else hadn't simply done the same.
The Amazon Question
In May 2017, facing declining same-store sales, competitive pressure from Kroger and Walmart (now the largest retailer of organic groceries in America), and a board challenge from the activist hedge fund Jana Partners, Mackey did the thing that founders dread most. He sold his company.
Amazon paid $13.7 billion in cash. The deal closed in August. Mackey stayed on as CEO, and he insists, with the forced conviction of a man trying to believe his own argument, that the marriage has been good. "Amazon's been quite respectful of Whole Foods Market's culture," he told The New Yorker in 2020. "They have not tried to turn us into a clone of Amazon."
But there are tells. In the same interview, when asked about his relationship with
Jeff Bezos, Mackey was notably spare: "I don't think I've met one-on-one with him" since soon after the merger. Their conversations happened "in a group setting." The two companies had "different cultures." In the language of Mackey's marriage metaphor—one he used often—Amazon and Whole Foods had "separate bedrooms."
The loss of independence gnawed. "I'll always wonder if we had fought Jana Partners could we have won?" Mackey said in 2024. Employees noticed the changes that Amazon's operational efficiencies brought: tighter inventory, different product mixes, the gradual disappearance of brands that had long been staples. One former customer, writing with the grief of someone describing a childhood home that has been renovated beyond recognition, catalogued the losses: the empty bakery shelves, the perpetual egg shortage, the surplus of frozen chicken nuggets, the misspelled ingredient labels ("pummelo" for pomelo, "Rosset" for Russet) that signaled not just carelessness but a fundamental shift in who was minding the store.
I'll always wonder if we had fought Jana Partners could we have won? But [Amazon has] been a good steward of the brand. They let us drop our prices and they enabled Whole Foods to think long term.
Mackey retired in September 2022, forty-four years after opening SaferWay. He was sixty-nine. "It's like a child," he said of visiting Whole Foods stores while traveling. "When the child is grown up, I still love my child. But the child has its own life, its own destiny."
Love, Life, and the Infinite Game
In retirement, Mackey has launched a new venture called Love.Life, a health-and-wellness company that aims to unite nourishing food, holistic medical care, and precision wellness therapies. He took over an old Best Buy in El Segundo, California, to build the first center. The name is not an accident. "I found out at a pretty early age that the most important thing in life is love," he has said, crediting an MDMA experience at a New Age gathering in Austin decades earlier with the insight. "I realized—and I've never forgotten—that love is the most important thing in life. There's just nothing that compares to it."
The spiritual journey has been as eclectic and omnivorous as the intellectual one: Christianity in his late teens (he had a crush on a devout girl), atheism through his twenties and thirties, A Course in Miracles in his forties (a channeling from Jesus that he initially dismissed as baloney, then embraced after a passage about anger at God made him run around his house in epiphanic circles), holotropic breathwork, guided psychedelic sessions, Sufism by marriage. He has reexperienced his own birth during a breathing exercise. ("I was a Cesarean.") He has engaged in healing conversations with estranged former colleagues, including a two-day visit with Peter Roy in South Carolina during which Roy subjected him to a catalogue of grievances. He quotes A Course in Miracles: "Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?"
"But you have a reputation for liking to argue," a journalist once said to him.
"But I don't like to argue to be right. I like to argue because that's how I get to the truth. I think dialectically."
It is a distinction that matters enormously to Mackey and considerably less to the people on the other end of his dialectics. His blend of guile and guilelessness is, as Paumgarten observed, peculiar. He will say something outrageous, seem genuinely surprised by the backlash, reflect deeply, arrive at a spiritual insight, and then—inevitably—say something outrageous again. The cycle is not hypocrisy. It is a feature of a mind that values honesty above diplomacy and ideas above comfort, a mind that has always preferred the argument to the relationship.
At seventy, he reads voraciously—Joe Dispenza on neuroplasticity, Robert Richardson's biography of William James, Michael Greger on aging. He serves on the boards of the Cato Institute, Conscious Capitalism, the Institute for Cultural Evolution, and Students for Liberty. He is writing about the need to "redefine capitalism" and the importance of what the economist Deirdre McCloskey calls "The Great Enrichment." He is still competitive. Years ago, the traditional executive-retreat volleyball games at Whole Foods had to be scrapped, owing to Mackey's intensity and his ill-disguised scorn for less capable teammates. (Mackey says he simply got too old for volleyball.)
The new venture—Love.Life—represents a bet that what Mackey did for food he can do for health: democratize access to something that has been the province of the wealthy, build a brand on moral purpose, and prove that business can be a vehicle for human flourishing. The hubris is considerable. So is the track record.
On a recent afternoon, between appearances on financial cable-news programs, Mackey sat in a midtown New York bar drinking sparkling water. He was wearing a dark suit and pleather shoes—the man who bathed in a dishwasher, dressed up for television but still refusing leather. After a moment he got up to leave, and a journalist watched him walk toward Sixth Avenue, in a suit that looked a size or two too big, thinking, or not thinking, about what he was going to say next.
