Katie Lundgreen Urness’s battle with disordered eating started when she was only 11 years old. As a gymnast, she felt immense pressure to stay small. Now 28 and living in Utah, she recalls desperately wanting candy but unable to allow herself even a single Skittle.
After almost ten years of struggling, she decided to seek medical help, ultimately being diagnosed with anorexia nervosa. Her difficult journey to recovery was fueled by her desire to become a mother; she worried that her eating habits could harm a future child’s development.
By the time she got pregnant at 25, her eating habits had improved significantly. Strangely, soon after, social media platforms like TikTok and Instagram began suggesting wellness content related to motherhood, even though she hadn’t actively searched for it.
A recurring theme in this content was the idea of food purity, warning about the dangers of everyday items and claiming that common ingredients, like high-fructose corn syrup in baby formula, could be harmful—claims that have largely been debunked.
Another topic was disdain for the medical system. “Content creators urged people not to trust their doctors,” Urness mentions, recalling a particular influencer who described a glucose drink used for diabetes testing as “poison.”
She found herself watching influencers criticized by experts for misleading health claims, including one who inflated health risks linked to the Covid vaccine and another who recommended consuming raw milk, despite the medical consensus that it can pose serious health risks.
These creators often advocated for hyperawareness about perceived dietary threats and profited off those fears. Many, including some who supported controversial figures, benefited from ad revenue or sales of various products tied to their narratives.
“There’s a kernel of truth in some of this alarmist food content, which makes it appealing to those who are naturally skeptical,” notes Christy Harrison, a registered dietitian. Yet she points out that these concerns can be exaggerated.
Indeed, while there are issues within the American food industry, she finds the connections made between these practices and human health to be often overstated and lacking solid scientific backing.
For Urness, exposure to sensational posts started to take a toll. By the time she welcomed her son in 2023, she had developed an obsessive fear regarding the safety of her food. “I became afraid to eat even the vegetables in my fridge because of concerns about pesticides,” she admits.
She felt pressured to revert to restrictive eating to protect herself and her breastfeeding baby, which led her to realize that this obsessive behavior might be a form of disordered eating known as orthorexia.
“Orthorexia nervosa was a term coined by physician Steven Bratman in 1997, as he noticed his patients’ obsessive attitudes about food and nutrition,” Harrison explains. While being mindful of diet is normal, this extreme fixation, particularly on food purity, can lead to significant eating disorders.
Despite awareness of orthorexia growing, it remains somewhat hidden, as it’s not yet classified in psychiatric manuals, making it harder for healthcare providers to recognize.
In more severe cases, orthorexia can disrupt daily life and lead to serious health issues, including nutritional deficiencies and co-occurring disorders, like OCD or body dysmorphia. “It’s not just healthy eating; it dominates your thoughts,” Urness says, as she acknowledges still grappling with orthorexia while striving for recovery.
A meta-analysis from 2023 indicated that orthorexia is present across genders, with men often framing their restrictive eating around fitness and performance, whereas women typically focus on food purity.
Although clinically significant cases of orthorexia are rare, experts believe social media is exacerbating the issue, as daily exposure to harmful beliefs about food has risen. A study from 2017 reported that nearly half of Instagram users following health food accounts displayed symptoms of orthorexia.
Allison Hume, a 40-year-old elementary school teacher from Ontario, similarly struggled after a challenging birth during the pandemic. Hours spent on social media led her down the rabbit hole of information from influential figures who often lacked nutritional training.
“Their black-and-white messages felt reassuring—like if I avoided certain foods, I wouldn’t get sick,” Hume recalls. This anxiety led her to eliminate various ingredients deemed unsafe, which ultimately weighed heavily on her mental health and finances.
To verify what products were permissible, Hume turned to ingredient-scanning apps. Indulging in foods that didn’t meet her new standards left her restless. “I genuinely believed our health was at risk if I didn’t adhere to these rules,” she remarks.
Her family noticed her increasing irritability and controlling behavior, and Hume often questioned why others weren’t as vigilant about food. Reflecting on her past behavior, she now feels guilt over its effect on loved ones.
As she works with professionals to overcome orthorexia, she believes many creators are exploitative. “They know their audience—vulnerable people such as parents and the elderly—and prioritize profit over genuine concern,” she asserts.
In the wake of the pandemic, trust in health systems in America has declined, leaving room for wellness misinformation to flourish. The conspiracy-laden content flooding social media appeals to those feeling uncertain or anxious about health.
“When your brain feels fatigued from nursing, it’s easy to be swayed by emotionally charged posts,” Urness reflects. Such content can inadvertently reinforce orthorexic behaviors.
Food-purity ideology often carries the message that personal diligence is the only protection against perceived health threats, perpetuating the notion that illness stems from negligence. This has been particularly adopted by certain online communities projecting themselves as guardians of family health.
Despite some of their advice being based on sound research, many creators also spread inaccuracies. For example, claims linking common food additives to serious health risks circulate widely, reinforcing the idea that cooking from scratch is the only safe option.
However, many studies indicate that the U.S. food supply is among the safest globally. Experts argue that such blanket defenses only exacerbate the cultural pressures limiting women’s roles in the public sphere, reinforcing patriarchal norms.
Orthorexia embodies this neurotic attention to food, representing another layer of control that can be politicized. Dr. Emily Contois points out that invoking fear around food is a method that authoritarian systems use to maintain power.
Transforming the dialogue around health and nutrition also includes reframing systemic causes of ill health rather than focusing solely on personal dietary choices. Zambreny, who spent years under the influence of misleading information, has found herself angry over the flip-flopping messages of influencers she used to trust.
“They seem more focused on status than substantive change,” she fumed, adding that their inconsistent narratives can significantly misguide followers.
Such personal frustrations exemplify a broader trend where public discourse around food can misdirect focus away from more immediate problems, leading some policymakers to act more performatively than effectively.
Recommendations for recovery often emphasize working with registered dietitians and mental health professionals to combat these distorted beliefs. Hume, for instance, has made significant strides in addressing her fears around food, recalling her first hot dog in three years as a moment of triumph.
Yet, she acknowledges the memories missed due to her obsession. “I feel sad thinking about the moments I could have shared with my children but was too focused on keeping them safe,” she admits.
The path to recovery isn’t just about individual healing; it calls for an overall cultural shift towards accessible, science-supported nutrition and a renewed commitment to communal health. “This is a time to gather together rather than retreat,” Contois concludes, emphasizing the need for collective effort in addressing these challenges.
