Eating Clean: A Personal Journey

I’m at a diner with my dad on 53rd and 1st in New York City. As I flip through the laminated menu, I realize there’s very little that I would have considered eating a year ago. Those eggs, frying up with some generic oil? No, thank you. And yogurt? Maybe, until I remember all those preservatives and hard-to-pronounce additives.

The first time I encountered the term “seed oils” was in summer 2021, listening to a popular podcast that thrived during the pandemic with its anti-woke stance.

Seed oils are essentially vegetable oils extracted from plants like soybean, canola, sunflower, corn, and safflower. You’ll find them in salad dressings and various processed foods. They’re used more often in restaurants than olive oil or butter since they’re cheaper and have a higher smoke point and more neutral flavor.

The hosts of that podcast discussed a book by a doctor who inspired the seed oil-free movement in the early 2000s. This doctor argued that seed oils are some of the worst substances for our bodies, claiming they contribute to inflammation and chronic illnesses.

I didn’t ponder it further until a week later at a dimly-lit restaurant on Henry Street for my birthday, surrounded by ten of my close friends. I had ordered pancakes for dinner, but my friend Jane, sitting beside me, opted for crudité. My stack of buttery, fluffy pancakes contrasted sharply with her tidy arrangement of fresh veggies and hummus.

Jane had recently immersed herself in the seed oil-free “movement,” but I was shocked at how serious she was about it.

“You’re crazy, Jane,” I laughed, casting a surprised glance at her plate.

But she insisted, “I’m telling you — I’ve never felt better. Period cramps and headaches? Gone!”

Later, another friend leaned over and whispered, “Jane looks really thin.”

After that birthday dinner, something clicked. I still ate what I wanted, but a nagging voice started to question my choices. Before each meal, I thought: What’s in this? Should I even eat it?

That voice grew louder. Soon, Jane and I communicated through our food choices—a language of discipline and moral superiority. In a matter of months, I found myself limiting my intake heavily, rationalizing it as a health choice. Yet, beneath that reasoning lay a creeping fear. The more I heard about seed oils and additives, the more my world shrunk. My journey toward “clean eating” became almost obsessive, edging near orthorexia.

Orthorexia nervosa, a term from the late 1990s, defines an unhealthy fixation on eating only pure or healthy foods. While being mindful of nutrition isn’t wrong, it becomes problematic when rigid rules start to control your life.

Orthorexia isn’t officially recognized in the DSM-5, but it’s drawing more attention lately, especially with social media amplifying disordered eating patterns. A 2023 meta-analysis showed a rising prevalence of orthorexia symptoms across genders. For men, it often relates to achieving fitness ideals; for women, it’s typically linked to desires for “purity” in their diets. Platforms like Instagram and TikTok have helped spread this anxiety, often cloaked under the guise of “wellness.”

It was surprisingly easy to slip into this world. It began with small choices: a new yogurt brand, a special water filter, avoiding restaurants. But these small changes grew into a defining identity. The sheer volume of content confirming my beliefs made it seem undeniably true.

A 2017 study found that about half of Instagram users following health food accounts exhibited signs of orthorexia. TikTok and similar platforms intensified this obsessive messaging, turning my personal anxieties into a wider cultural narrative.

Looking back, it’s hard to say exactly what shifted. After a tough breakup, I turned to food as a means of control. Health, however I interpreted it, took center stage. With uncertainty in my life, relinquishing control over my health felt impossible. I needed something to manage, and that turned into my meals.

I mostly stopped dining out, and my sisters thought my strict diet was ridiculous. I couldn’t entirely disagree; I didn’t have all the facts. They would roll their eyes whenever I pointed out that a snack item was seed oil-free. I became consumed by it. I avoided receipts (thanks to forever chemicals), invested in water filters (to remove fluoride), stopped using plastic (to cut down on microplastics), and even ditched my AirPods (due to concerns about potential brain damage).

I worked out obsessively on limited food, pushing my limits in pursuit of the “healthiest version” of myself, chasing an illusion of wellness propagated by influencers capitalizing on health anxiety.

My Instagram feed became flooded with wellness advocates, each promoting their products and insisting everything else was toxic. If I wanted to be truly healthy, I had to buy into it. Americans now reportedly spend about $32 million daily on TikTok, with a significant portion spent on health and beauty products.

This booming market covers everything from vitamins and tinctures to protein powders and adaptogenic snacks. As of 2023, the U.S. supplement industry is valued at $57 billion, with projections of rising to $239 billion by 2028. It’s a lucrative cycle—promote fear about ordinary foods, then sell the so-called solution.

At Whole Foods, I’d wander the aisles, examining labels like sacred texts. I ended up losing almost 30 pounds. I thought I looked better; that’s the confusing part. I never cared about my weight before, but now, I was thrilled with being smaller. My quest for purity seamlessly turned into a desire to maintain that appearance.

By September 2024, my hair started falling out. I consulted a friend who’s a dermatologist.

“It’s probably stress,” I told myself.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” she noted.

At a party shortly after, several friends mentioned my weight loss, clearly having discussed it behind my back. The realization stung. What were they seeing that I wasn’t?

Still, their comments felt casual—there were no serious talks or genuine concern. My eating habits had transformed so gradually that even close friends barely registered the extent of my restrictions.

Then I began grad school, and suddenly I was explaining my eating habits to strangers at lunch. It felt embarrassing. Unlike my friends, these newcomers hadn’t slowly grown accustomed to my behavior. I took a fresh look at the content filling my feeds, examining the videos with newfound scrutiny.

The more I observed, the more uncomfortable I became. I wanted to escape the algorithm, so I turned to reading out of defensiveness, seeking validation for my beliefs. I hoped to find studies backing all the claims I’d seen on social media—about how seed oils were harmful or how fluoride posed risks. But the deeper I dug, the harder it became to ignore fundamental flaws in what I believed.

I sifted through scientific studies, public health reports, and expert interviews. I began questioning the origins of viral claims: Who first labeled seed oils as inflammatory? Why do influencers label certain additives carcinogenic while trusted health organizations don’t?

Gradually, I understood that much of my belief system was ungrounded. The references used in wellness content rarely pointed to peer-reviewed research, and when they did reference genuine studies, they were often inconclusive or outdated, lacking the context to support sweeping claims. Sensational details were often highlighted for clicks.

What hit me the hardest was realizing how fragile the foundation of my beliefs was—how much I had trusted fragments over facts. When inundated with the narrative that your food, water, and environment are toxic—and that the entities meant to protect you are deceptive—it feels almost careless not to heed those warnings.

Slowly, I started letting go. I saw a therapist to discuss my eating habits. She encouraged me to avoid demonizing whole food groups and pushed me to consume foods I’d previously labeled as unhealthy. I started dining out again and allowed myself the occasional French fry. Yet, loosening that grip took time, and I’m still a work in progress.

I can count on one hand the receipts I’ve touched over the last few years. I still hesitate at greasy foods, pondering their long-term effects. Yet, I pause, acknowledge the thought, and try to prevent it from taking over. I’ve blocked influencers I used to admire and stopped obsessing over ingredient lists.

It’s not straightforward. Even now, I still fret over what I ingest or use. But I’m making an effort to ground my choices in science rather than social media.

As I sit in this diner, my legs sticking to the vinyl seat, the waitress places our food in front of us. I gaze at the overcooked scrambled eggs blanketed in glossy American cheese. This can’t be healthy, I think to myself as I take a bite.

Some names and identifying details have been altered to protect the identities of those involved.

I’m a graduate student and journalist, often writing about art, architecture, and pop culture.