Alternative medicine, doctors and insurance

Alternative medicine. Just reading the phrase is enough to divide a room. For some, it conjures snake oil and superstition. For others, it represents something much more vital: continuity, culture, autonomy, and for many who’ve felt failed by conventional systems, it represents hope.

From acupuncture and ayurveda to reiki and herbal tinctures your abuela swears by, this world is vast, ancient, and often misunderstood. Some of these practices are more than trends; they are inherited traditions. And for many people, healing isn’t something you get from a pharmacy. It’s on Earth. It’s in a ritual. It’s in trusting the body’s ability to heal itself.

In a world where clinical settings can feel sterile, rushed, or transactional, more and more people are turning to seek other options.

So, why do people turn to alternative medicine? Why do doctors and insurers often resist it? And is choosing something “natural” always bad, or is it better?

Let’s break it down because these terms get thrown around a lot:

• Alternative medicine is used instead of conventional treatments. Like homoeopathy or energy healing.
• Complementary medicine is used with conventional treatments, like using acupuncture for chronic back pain.
• Naturopathic medicine leans into natural remedies, herbs, diet, and the body’s self-healing powers.
• Holistic medicine treats the whole person: mind, body, and spirit.

Emerging modalities like sound therapy and breathwork are gaining attention, even if scientific validation lags. One small study found that sound meditation can significantly reduce tension and anxiety (Goldsby et al., 2017). Forest bathing, or Shinrin-yoku, a practice originating in Japan, has been linked to lower cortisol levels and improved immune function (Park et al., 2010).

And while some practices (like acupuncture) are increasingly backed by studies and endorsed by institutions like the WHO and NIH, others like energy healing or chromotherapy remain harder to quantify. That’s not always due to a lack of effectiveness, but because our scientific frameworks weren’t built to study them.

Labels like alternative or complementary often reflect a Western-centric view.

What’s considered edgy in one country is mainstream elsewhere. In India and China, traditional medicine is part of state policy. In the West, what gets validated is what fits the biomedical model: peer-reviewed, measurable, repeatable. But healing isn’t always linear or quantifiable. Cultural wisdom, ancestral memory, and lived experience hold weight, too.

The lines are blurry. Are these practices holistic, traditional, spiritual, or simply comforting? Terminology is messy. But what’s clear is their appeal: a 2023 Statista survey found that over 40% of U.S. adults used at least one form of alternative healing, like massage, acupuncture, or homoeopathy.

Many healing practices that are now grouped under the “alternative medicine” umbrella didn’t originate in labs or wellness retreats; they come from deep ancestral traditions rooted in land, ceremony, and collective memory.

Take temazcal, for example. A Mesoamerican sweat lodge is more than a detox trend. It’s a ritual space for physical purification, emotional release, and spiritual reconnection. Inside the circular dome, heated volcanic stones are doused in herbal infusions. Songs are sung. Prayers are whispered. Grief is sometimes screamed out. People emerge not only sweaty, but transformed. For many, it’s a therapeutic process that Western medicine cannot replicate.

Or consider the ceremonial use of plant medicines, peyote, ayahuasca, and psilocybin mushrooms. These aren’t recreational drugs. In Indigenous contexts, they are sacraments, handled with intention, reverence, and strict protocols. They are used to access altered states of consciousness, to heal trauma, and to reconnect with spiritual identity.

Now, clinical research is catching up. Studies from Johns Hopkins, MAPS, and Imperial College London show that psychedelics may alleviate treatment-resistant depression, PTSD, anxiety, and addiction (Carhart-Harris et al., 2016; (Griffiths et al., 2016). What’s new is not the medicine; it’s that Western science is finally listening to what Indigenous communities have known for centuries.

Disappointment is a powerful motivator.

Patients, especially those with chronic illnesses, autoimmune disorders, mental health challenges, or invisible conditions, often feel dismissed, rushed, or over-medicated.

A growing body of research shows this isn’t imagined: a systematic review found that 37% of patients using alternative therapies do so because of dissatisfaction with conventional care, while another 37% do so because they perceive alternative treatments as “safer” or “more natural” (Frass et al., 2012).

There’s also a cultural gap. Many migrant or Indigenous patients report that their lived experiences, traditional knowledge, or spiritual beliefs are excluded from clinical conversations. For them, seeking alternative care isn’t a trend, but preserving dignity and identity.

The wellness industry, with all its contradictions, has tapped into this need, but often flattens it into lifestyle branding. There’s a difference between a $400 chakra cleanse sold in a boutique spa and a traditional healer offering a limpia in a rural village. One is commodified. The other is sacred.

It’s easy to reduce this debate to “doctors vs. healers”, but the truth is more nuanced.

Most physicians are trained in evidence-based medicine, which relies on peer-reviewed studies, randomised controlled trials – trials mostly done in males – by the way – and reproducible outcomes. From this lens, many alternative therapies appear unproven or even risky.

There’s also concern (sometimes valid) that patients may delay essential treatment while experimenting with unregulated supplements or spiritual therapies. And then there’s the chaos of misinformation, like influencers promoting celery juice as a cancer cure.

But the resistance isn’t just scientific, it’s systemic.

Medical schools often don’t train physicians in nutrition, trauma-informed care, or cultural humility. The default is: what can be prescribed, tested, or billed.

Still, things are changing. Integrative medicine is gaining traction in hospitals and clinics. And younger physicians are increasingly open to working with, not against, alternative frameworks.

Access is political. And in most countries, insurance policies and government regulations still treat alternative medicine as fringe or optional, if they acknowledge it at all.

In the U.S., for instance, patients spend over $30 billion out-of-pocket annually on alternative therapies (NCCIH, 2016). Why? Because most are not reimbursed, are not FDA-approved, or are considered “elective.”

That’s slowly changing. According to BioSpace, the U.S. market for complementary and alternative medicine is expected to reach $229.12 billion by 2033, driven by patient demand and increased research (BioSpace, 2024).

Meanwhile:

• Germany covers some CAM therapies when prescribed by licensed doctors.
• India and China have long integrated Ayurveda and Traditional Chinese Medicine into their official healthcare systems.

An interesting hybrid approach comes from Switzerland where in 2009, a national referendum led to the reinstatement of five complementary therapies (homeopathy, anthroposophic medicine, phytotherapy, traditional Chinese medicine, and neural therapy) into the list of services covered by the compulsory health insurance scheme. This decision was solidified in 2017, granting these therapies permanent coverage under basic insurance, provided they are administered by certified medical doctors with recognized qualifications (Swiss Federal Office of Public Health, 2017). Treatments administered by non-medical practitioners or those outside the specified therapies require supplementary insurance for reimbursement. (FOPH, 2017).

Still, the lack of regulation means quality, safety, and oversight vary wildly. Supplements are underregulated. Herbal products may be contaminated. And not all practitioners follow ethical standards. There’s a delicate balance between protecting patients and gatekeeping ancient wisdom.

Is balance possible? Absolutely. And it’s already happening. Integrative clinics are rising. Doctors are taking nutrition, lifestyle, and mental health more seriously. There’s even growing interest in psychedelic-assisted therapy for mental health.

Sound healing, meditation, herbalism, and traditional plant-based medicine are becoming more normalised. Research is slow but growing. Some universities now include mindfulness and energy-based therapies in their curriculum.

What we call “alternative” today may be mainstream tomorrow. Just ask yoga. Or meditation. Or even cannabis.

We’re entering an era of personalised medicine – one of the main life science trends for the next few years – where treatments are tailored to your genes, microbiome, environment, and even spiritual worldview. Integrative clinics are already offering care teams that include MDs, herbalists, trauma therapists, and acupuncturists under one roof.

Science is beginning to validate what many cultures already knew: healing is not linear, not always clinical, and not always measurable.

Both. And neither.

Doctors have every right to demand data. But patients have every right to seek care that feels human, holistic, and culturally relevant.

Some treatments work. Some don’t. Some need better studies. Others need to be decolonised, not dissected.

What we do know is this: people are asking for something deeper. And until conventional systems make space for that, alternative medicine will not be an alternative; it will be the only medicine many people trust.

The truth is, people want more than just treatment. They want to feel heard. They want care that speaks to their story, their culture, and their values. Alternative medicine, whether it’s rooted in ceremony, herbs, or breath, often fills in those gaps. And that tells us something about the limitations of the systems we currently have.

For those of us working in or around life sciences, maybe our role isn’t to choose sides, but to stay curious. To ask why some people trust a plant more than a pill. To wonder what healing might look like if we listened more closely.

Because at the end of the day, medicine should be about people. And people are rarely one-size-fits-all.