Mitch N.
Google
I wandered into Vuori like a curious pilgrim in search of enlightenment through moisture-wicking fabric. Everyone smiled. Everyone glowed. Everyone seemed to know exactly how my soul should feel in a pair of $128 joggers. It’s not fake kindness—it’s militant warmth. You could tell the “experience team” has been trained by someone who believes eye contact heals trauma.
There’s a Stockholm level of loyalty pulsing through that staff—devotion to brand, to tone, to the illusion of effortless calm. You can feel it in the air, in the soft lighting, in the scripted casualness of every “How’s your day going?” It’s impressive, maybe even beautiful, but it’s like eating plastic fruit—perfectly executed, but nutritionally void.
Half the employees have their midriff out, not in rebellion, but in uniform. It’s the church of soft abs and performance fleece. The pants were crunchy, but the people were not. Everyone seemed so serene that I briefly wondered if they pump lavender into the HVAC system to keep reality at bay.
Four stars, not for the results, but for the zeal. Vuori is retail as religion—slick, smiling, and softly humming the gospel of comfort.