The Oura Ring is a next-generation fitness tracker that fits on your finger. Unlike bulkier wearables, it inconspicuously measures multiple vital signs—heart rate, activity levels, sleep quality, and temperature, to name a few.
At first, the concept intrigued me. A sleek, minimalistic device that could quietly collect meaningful health data without the discomfort of a clunky smartwatch? Sign me up.
The First Red Flag: Pricing Gimmicks
My first frustration arose before I even owned the ring—during checkout. The Oura Ring comes in several colors, and I wanted gold so it could double as my wedding band. But someone at Oura decided that this particular color should cost an extra $100—despite the fact that it’s not actually made of gold, just coated to look like it.
I get it—businesses charge premiums for premium-looking products. But there’s a difference between justified markups and a blatant cash grab. If they had asked for, say, $25 more, I could have accepted that. But $100? That feels deliberately exploitative.
A Promising Start, Then a Harsh Reality Check
Once I got the ring, I genuinely enjoyed it. It solved a key issue I had with my Apple Watch—which felt too bulky to sleep in. The Oura Ring, by contrast, was lightweight and unobtrusive, allowing me to track my sleep without discomfort.
The most obvious issue it that unlike the Apple Watch, which provides an on-device interface, the Oura Ring has no screen or real-time feedback. The only way to access your health data is to open the Oura app and let it sync.
Oh, and did I mention that this functionality costs $6 a month?
The Subscription Squeeze
Oura gives you a 60-day free trial of their membership, after which you have to pay to continue using the app. Once my trial ended, I never renewed it.
The reason? I hate subscriptions.
I completely understand that app development requires resources. I can understant that companies need recurring revenue to support future updates. But what I don’t respect is a business model that forces you into an ongoing financial commitment for a device you already paid $399 for.
Some people argue, “Come on, $6 a month isn’t that bad.” And sure, in isolation, it’s not. But that’s exactly the trick. Subscription-based services thrive on psychological manipulation—they market themselves as small, forgettable expenses.
In fact, it seems like every subscription service has started measuring cost in terms of cups of coffee—
“This product is just one latte a month!”
“For the price of a cappuccino, you can unlock amazing features!”
When did we start valuing everything in caffeine units?
Individually, a $6 charge doesn’t seem like much. But in a world where everything is moving toward subscriptions, the total cost becomes ridiculous. At some point, these small fees stack up into something absurd. And worse, they cultivate a feeling that I never truly own anything. I didn’t buy a product—I bought a temporary license to access what should already be mine.
Did I Even Need This Data?
The final nail in the coffin? I started questioning the value of the data itself.
I originally bought the Oura Ring for sleep tracking, but after a few months, I realized something: I didn’t need an app to tell me whether I slept well. I already knew. I could tell by how I felt in the morning.
For professional athletes or people with medical conditions, hyper-detailed biometrics might be useful. But for the average person? Do I really need to obsess over my HRV, body temperature deviations, and sleep cycles? Or is all of this just another way to convince us we need a device to tell us how we feel?
