The crisis point came with the sea moss. Or perhaps the hemp protein powder? Certainly, when I started adding goose-poo-coloured dust to my breakfast, the unease I have been feeling around food culture deepened. Turning an already drab meal (plain vegan yoghurt, enough seeds to kill a gerbil) into what looked, and tasted, like mud felt more like self-harm than self-care. But, no, what pushed me over the edge was the tiny £2 Marks & Spencer sea moss shot. Sorry, not just sea moss: “High-quality red algae sea moss … high in iodine, vitamins C, B1, B6 and B12.” It was blue and tasted awful, with hints of bubble bath. Of course it did – I’m not a limpet; I’m not supposed to consume sea moss!
When did food become medicine? There’s all the pseudoscientific supplementary stuff, but even normal food has started to feel functional, mere units of nutrition. A tally runs in my head of things I “need” to eat: am I getting enough oats, beans, leafy greens? What about nuts? I cut back on crisps to cram more nuts in and chuck tofu into everything, because neglecting protein is the worst crime a middle-aged woman can commit. I’m not sure I remember what I actually enjoy eating any more. I’m certain no one on earth enjoys eating flaxseeds – they have all the personality of polystyrene packaging chips – but I choke them down daily, for my cholesterol and gut health.
If this were just my neurosis, it wouldn’t matter, but it’s where we are in affluent corners of the west, not eating, but hitting our macros, catching micro-nutrients like we are Pokémon, fibremaxxing and recolonising our microbiome. TikTok is suggesting people drink a daily slurry of chia seeds, and the algorithm repeatedly offers me lion’s mane snacks and prebiotic drinks promising “glowing skin, a stronger immune system & flourishing microbiome”. Supermarket shelves have filled with GLP-1-friendly “nutrient dense” products; protein grams appear in shouty capital letters on yoghurt pots.
The final boss of this functional, anhedonic eating is nutritionally optimised slop you don’t even need to chew. The New York Times recently explored aspirational meal replacements, including, bleakly, something called “liquid salad” – 13 fruits and vegetables blended into a baby-food-style pouch. And a newsletter I read recommended a green supplement called AG1 (“70+ high-quality ingredients – vitamins, minerals, botanicals and bacterial cultures”). Eager for further dietary optimisation, I clicked: it’s £59 for your first month’s supply. My son and his housemates were ahead of the curve a few years ago when they experimentally tried living off that bro-goo Huel. “That’s so depressing!” I remember saying in horror, but they claimed it was fine; it was nice, even, “not having to think about food”.
I get that. The “thinking about” healthy eating itself feels unhealthy, verging on all-consuming. A twentysomething man I know told me he knows the protein content of every food, which conjures the spectre of the generations of women unable to erase calorie counts from their brains. We’re making food a source of anxiety, not enjoyment. It’s a luxury problem – many people can’t access the basic building blocks of a decent diet (in 2024, the Trussell Trust reported 14.1 million people in the UK lived in food insecure households). But, for those with means, dietary neurosis is whipped up and egged on by companies and influencers, convincing us we need “immunity shots”, “brain food” packs and protein bars.
Food can be medicine, or the opposite. We’ve learned amazing things about the relationship between the gut microbiome and our health and learn more every year; we need to drill down on the role of diet in the alarming rates of colon cancer in young people and work out how to regulate ultra-processed foods (disproportionately consumed in deprived communities). But you can’t cheat death with chia seeds, and by trying, we aren’t nourishing other parts of ourselves. We’re neglecting pleasure, which gives life its flavour.
Could we stop seeing eating as another way to self-optimise and remember it’s a daily joy? With Lent coming up, I’ve decided to observe what I’m calling “anti-Lent”. I’ll be giving up consuming anxiety-inducing nutritional content and instead eating food I love every day. It definitely won’t include sea moss.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
