In today’s attention economy, most health-related topics enter and exit public consciousness at dizzying speeds, like a revolving door of partially digested information.
One topic that presents a notable exception to this, however, is food. Food, and the contradictions and controversies surrounding what constitutes “nutrition,” always seem to be in vogue, and understandably so. Food is an undisputed necessity for survival and much of our daily functioning is dictated by food quality and access.
The ubiquity of food in our lives is precisely what makes it such fertile ground for targeted disinformation to take root. From the way MyPlate is structured to align with the current science (but in the end, is often just a porcelain reflection of the cultural zeitgeist), to whether SNAP benefits should include desserts, food has become a political, economic, and moral signifier in ways that can either break or heal people’s relationships to eating – and to themselves, and to one another.
As an early career researcher studying binge eating disorder (BED) in adolescents, I’ve seen the relationship-defining potential of food firsthand. The most prevalent eating disorder globally – with a higher incidence rate than anorexia and bulimia nervosa combined – BED was only acknowledged as a clinically “official” and distinct mental health condition in the May 2013 (fifth) edition of the DSM. There are several suspected and confirmed reasons for this, including the longstanding practice of socially ostracizing people who overeat, and the tendency to build interventions around weight loss rather than structural reform (despite the fact that food insecurity is associated with 1.67 higher odds of BED in adulthood and 1.31 higher odds in adolescence).
This morally charged contortion of food from a source of sustenance into a source of shame crops up in health discourse at every level, from our kitchen counters to our federal government. Even so, many science communicators who unpack other sensitive, “splashy” topics undaunted are noticeably more hesitant to comment on the Healthy Eating Pyramid or the latest dietary guidelines for perimenopause. It’s true that the widespread crackdown on public health scholarship that does not fall in line with a specific political appetite contributes to the current delicacy (pun fully intended) of writing about food science and policy. But in the meanwhile, food insecurity remains a state-sanctioned reality for nearly 14% of American households (a statistic that’s likely an underestimation, given that many people who face food insecurity don’t have a house and, by extension, a household).
The unshakeable urgency of this injustice means that producing evidence-driven, content on food and nutrition should be treated as a moral imperative for science communicators. And as we make our way into these discourses, we must move with intention and humility, recognizing that the ongoing erosions in trust among scientists, clinicians, public health practitioners, and those we’re meant to serve must be met with a genuine commitment to reparation.
Scaling this tall order first requires knowing the fiercest contenders in this space, from the Make America Healthy Again (MAHA) movement to corporate conglomerates to micro-influencers peddling supplements. Each of these entities are unified by a major advantage: through their aggressive branding and marketing, they have garnered loyal followings with near-unconditional trust in their messaging. And massive irony aside, they’ve maximized the palatability of their (often misleading and unsubstantiated) narratives about “clean eating” and “real food” by ultra-processing information, much the same way manufactures ultra-process many of the foods that are beloved staples in the American diet.
How, exactly, have these individuals and institutions become so effective?
- By freezing information (in time): That is, by appealing to nostalgia to reintroduce outdated data and (de)regulatory standards in the name of “consumer choice”. Think the current pushback against pasteurization and pesticides, despite decades (or centuries) of developing agricultural technologies for optimal food safety.
- By manipulating data through extractions, filtrations, and additives: MAHA has been known to extract research findings from their original contexts and splice them together to retrofit the interests of the current presidential administration.
- By targeting desires for convenience and instant gratification: MAHA and adjacent wellness “waves” have co-opted the mantle of addressing the “root causes” of chronic illness, yet their recommendations focus entirely on individual health behaviors while continuing to uphold systems that prevent food sovereignty and access to preventative health care.
- By tucking the highly illegible into the familiar: Just as many nutrition labels include a combination of simple and unpronounceable ingredients, targeted disinformation tends to use recognizable terms to press forward convoluted agendas. What does it mean, for instance, to claim that science has waged a “war on protein” (three words whose definitions we know separately, but take on a nefarious air when combined)?
Action Steps for the Field
Science communicators can refine our strategy for combatting misinformation to more effectively connect with the communities we serve. Given the ever-increasing importance of making our stances known, I encourage science communicators to tread into “nutrition education territory” with the same care that you would use to keep unprocessed foods fresh and flavorful:
- Manage the temperature: Food is inextricably tied to our emotions, but when discussing dietary recommendations, it’s important to address misinformation with empathy and sensitivity rather than shame, judgment, or impatience. This is especially key given the relationship that food and eating has with body function and size.
- Store the information in airtight (data) containers: Make sure you keep the facts and figures you present grounded in their proper contexts. Critically reflect on whether your food-related recommendations and their reported impacts on community health are culturally inclusive and up to date. If not, transparently state their limitations.
- Leverage storytelling to absorb some of the heaviness: Just as you might wrap produce in paper towels to remove moisture and help the food maintain its color, make your message as resonant as possible by wrapping your data-heavy recommendations in personal anecdotes about your own memories and experiences surrounding nutrition. Food draws out vulnerability in a way that can feel heavy and intimidating to the average person. When scientists lead by example in openly unpacking the good, the bad, the uncertain, and the outright hilarious aspects of their own food journeys, they humanize their expertise and clear ground for sustained, mutual trust.
Later this spring, I will have the immense privilege of attending AcademyHealth’s Annual Research Meeting to publicly reflect on my academic, professional, and lived expertise on nurturing trust in the pursuit of health justice. I expect this convening to be an exercise in challenging assumptions, (re-)examining communications frameworks, unearthing creative ideas for cross-sector collaborations, and taking time to slow down and chew on the gravity of the current moment. As a young, Black woman who has historically been forced to haul her own folding chair to tables like these, I especially look forward to presenting “food for thought” that – unprocessed as it may be – goes down well among like-hearted people who are committed to channeling information and intention into tangible advocacy. I’ll see you in Seattle at the opening plenary “Trust & Health: A New Narrative.” Learn more here.