How expensive is it to live the Pilates Princess life in Singapore?

I once tried to become a Pilates Princess.

I bought the pastel leggings, the matching tank top, even a tumbler worthy of royal escort, and marched into a boutique studio ready for my glow-up. An hour later, I was sore, broke, and wondering why my latte hadn’t come with a side of off-duty model composure.

By now, the Pilates Princess has claimed her throne on TikTok and Instagram, flooding feeds with pastel-hued morning routines and reformer reels that feel as ubiquitous as a Marvel release. It’s a lifestyle stitched together by soft-toned activewear, delicately accessorised smoothies, and a glass-skin glow that suggests: I have my life together.

Unlike the more generic “That Girl” routines, this is indulgent, feminine, and aspirational – modern-day princesshood, achieved through discipline, curation, and, importantly, spending.

Scroll through the #PilatesPrincess tag and you’ll find now, nearly 130,000 posts since 2023 – a mash-up of “clean girl aesthetic” and Sex and the City, if Carrie Bradshaw swapped Manolos for Lululemon Define jackets. It is meant to seem effortless.

But, in this light, it feels less like self-care – it’s giving… pay-to-play.

What makes a ‘Pilates Princess’?

Pilates Princess-hood isn’t really about mastering the yoga mat roll-up, to be clear – that’s just a bonus, actually – but appearing polished, serene, and enviably composed is the goal. There is some sort of innate ritual instilled by the hours of doomscrolling on TikTok: early mornings with gua sha rollers, pastel athleisure coordinated to the shade of your Stanley-slash-Owala tumbler, a boutique Pilates class, followed by a “casual” brunch that somehow photographs like a Kinfolk spread. 

So, while alluring, the aesthetics invariably come at a cost. A Lululemon jacket can set you back over $200, boutique Pilates ranges anywhere from $30–$60 a class, and artisanal matcha lattes ($5–$12 each) quickly rival a Singtel phone bill if they’re done biweekly. Add on the trimmings – Alo grip socks, Kitsch claw clips, a yoga mat that could cost more than NTUC groceries for the month – and the “effortless” starts to look rather financially exacting.

For context, the latest graduate employment survey that was released in 2024 showed that the median gross salaries of fresh graduates rose to $4,313, up from $4,200 in 2022. But after CPF deductions, rent – or contributions at home – transport, and basic living expenses, there is still limited disposable income left. 

In that light, wellness, barring emphasis on healthy routine, becomes some sort of arithmetic puzzle with a tangible, and sometimes prohibitive, price tag.

Breaking it down

To live the full fantasy – say, with twice-to-thrice-weekly boutique Pilates sessions, premium athleisure, curated beauty, and self-care consumables – the upfront cost can stack up quicker than you can say ‘Pilates’.

The Pilates Princess begins her day with hydration, supplements, and a full depuff-and-skincare routine. A touch of makeup, polished hair, and a few quiet minutes of meditation set the tone before she heads out.

Next comes the main event: reformer Pilates, of course. Dressing the part is non-negotiable – lululemon staples with a hint of Alo, grip socks from local darling Sunday Pilates Club, and a sleek tote (The Paper Bunny, bow charm included). Her Apple Watch and Ultrahuman Smart Ring are clipped in, ready to track every move.

After class, it’s time to refuel. Sambas on, she heads for a grain bowl and an iced matcha latte from KYŌ KOHEE, a book in hand to round out the ritual.

After the matcha moment comes the math. Behind every grain bowl and grip sock is a hefty price tag – $4,523.81 in total, or 105 per cent of what a typical fresh grad earns in a month – all before CPF. For a lifestyle that insists on effortlessness, the only thing moving effortlessly is money – out of your bank account.

Sure, you could strip away the so-called ‘extras’ – the gadgets, the outfits, the general splurges – maybe swap in several Shopee dupes, or maybe skip them entirely.

At minimum, the Pilates Princess arms herself with an Owala Freesip ($69.90), a full Shiseido skincare set ($238), and a Glossier “clean girl” kit ($120). Her thrice-weekly fix at ALLY Singapore runs $399 a month, while the full lululemon uniform – tank, pants, and Define jacket – clocks in at $494. Add Sunday Pilates Club grip socks ($113.50), a Paper Bunny tote ($95), and Adidas Sambas ($159), and she’s nearly dressed for the part.

Of course, no routine ends without a refuel: an iced matcha from KYŌ KOHEE ($12.90) and a Daily Cut brunch ($14.10).

All told, even the so-called “bare minimum” lifestyle still totals $1,715.40.

So, the Pilates Princess aesthetic sells balance, but the math disagrees – balance, apparently, now comes with a payment plan. And inner peace? Just another line item on your monthly expenses, neatly slotted next to your BTO downpayment.

Why we buy in

There’s no tidy explanation for why this lifestyle captivates us, but I’d argue it extends far beyond a pair of leggings.

In my experience, the “Pilates Princess” feels like a promise – of composure, competence, care. In Singapore’s relentless hustle, that’s intoxicating. Wellness becomes shorthand for discipline and taste: picture Hailey Bieber on a reformer, matcha latte in hand, Apple Watch tracking every heartbeat – an image that whispers, I have time, money, and control. I’ll admit: I’ve caught myself wondering if an Oura ring could buy me the same calm veneer.

And that’s the real price of being “that girl”: not just the Alo mat or the $10 green juice, but the buy-in to a cycle where self-worth is tethered to consumption. To keep up is to keep spending – a quiet servitude to capitalism dressed up in soft pastels.

Sociologists would call this cultural capital – the habits, style, and know-how that confer status as surely as a year-end bonus. Once, that meant swinging a Birkin; today it’s subtler, lodged in ritual. A perfectly matched Alo mat and grip socks announce belonging just as loudly – if you know, you know.

When I scroll through TikTok, too, the mechanics feel almost too slick. Discovery, desire, checkout – collapsed into one infinite scroll. By lunchtime, a tumbler or $12 claw clip feels less like a trinket than a survival tool, redeemed only once I hit that ugly yellow basket. Or, in my case, my bank account, mid-scroll, sings a heartbreak ballad Olivia Rodrigo would envy.

Beneath the filters is aesthetic labour, too – the work of looking the part. Influencers and users alike curate bodies, spaces, and accessories that broadcast “health” and “high-functioning”. The look becomes the message, and the message is monetised, with self-care collapsing into self-worth: to buy this, do this, become this.

And, of course, the fact that the archetype skews skinny and pale adds another layer to who feels invited into the club.

Because of this, the pull isn’t just personal, but social. Studios and group classes double as micro-communities: weekend plans, WhatsApp chats, shared rituals. Belonging sustains behaviour far longer than willpower ever could, which is why these spaces feel “sticky” – even when they sting the wallet.

Here, the industry sprawls. From $15 acai bowls to $900 “urban retreats”, Singapore’s wellness machine packages optimisation in pastel bows. The Pilates Princess is, ultimately, hustle culture’s softer cousin: still about discipline, only prettier.

The privilege of playing this game is, itself, a class marker. A 6AM reformer class assumes no late shift or work, no need for childcare, and no second job. The “effortless” aesthetic rests on a precarious financial tightrope of aspiration, butting heads with affordability.

Is it worth it?

If you can afford it, maybe. But wellness doesn’t need to look like this – and I’m reminding myself of that as I type.

Thankfully, a corner of TikTok is quietly pushing back against lifestyle consumerism, too. Some creators are now openly saying you don’t need every pastel tumbler, every limited-edition mat, every claw clip to be “put together”.

So perhaps the better question isn’t “How much can I spend to look like her?”, but “How do I build a routine that actually serves me?” The Pilates Princess shows what’s possible, but we should remind ourselves what’s enough.

For many, that’s a single boutique session for coaching, a community run, or a quick walk home from the MRT – small joys that deliver health, belonging, and calm.

1. Health, itself, is wealth

Pilates has real benefits – better posture, back support, and mobility. In fact, according to HealthHub, any mix of strength, mobility, and cardio that adds up to at least 150 minutes a week will do the job. That could be a $40 reformer class, or a $30 ActiveSG membership paired with resistance bands.

My personal rule of thumb? Buy once, buy neutral: a mat, breathable socks, a band. Upgrade for function, not for the feed.

2. Budget, not brag

And the city is already a gym if you want it – 380km of park connectors, pull-up bars in void decks, endless HDB staircases. Toss a towel and a band in your bag and you can build a circuit anywhere from Jurong to Punggol Coast.

Don’t sleep on subsidies too: as part of SG60, all Singapore Citizens and PRs get a $100 ActiveSG credit top-up – just log in anytime before 31 December 2025 to claim it. First-time members get another $100, bringing the total to $200 credits – enough to cover months of gym or pool access before you spend a cent of your own money. 

3. Friends over filters

The most affordable (and sustainable) wellness routine boils down to one thing: belonging. Studios offer that, but so do office runs, neighbour walks, or CC yoga. Community keeps us honest, consistent, and motivated. 

And, importantly, anchor to outcomes, not aesthetics: pick two small, measurable goals – a pain-free 30-minute walk; a 60-second side plank – and track them. Progress is the real glow.

The takeaway

So, is the full aesthetic “worth it”? My take: if it buys you discipline you’d otherwise never find, maybe – temporarily. But if chasing the look makes you anxious about money, that cancels out half the wellness.

You can absolutely be the girl who moves, hydrates, and rests – without being the girl who spends. Your body doesn’t see your outfit; it only feels your habits.

For me? My wellness routine right now is a 20-minute walk home from the MRT, sometimes capped with a $1.90 yuan yang siew dai peng. Not pastel, not curated – but priceless all the same.

And when I scroll past another reformer reel, I remind myself: you don’t have to buy into the glow to be well.