Every species knows what to eat—except us. We are the only animal that completely rewrote the environment we evolved for, and now our instincts, science, and culture all point in different directions.
Most animals don't think about food. They are born into a narrow niche with instinctive preferences, learn through imprinting and social modeling, and get fast, harsh feedback from their ecosystem. Their "knowledge" is hardwired bias plus a small menu of options plus immediate consequences.
Humans also have that animal layer—cravings for sweet, fat, salt. But then we did something radical: we took an animal body designed for scarcity and immediate feedback, and dropped it into a world of engineered abundance and delayed consequences.
Humans don't know what the "best" diet is because multiple layers of complexity and distortion
stack on top of each other. We evolved as animals whose appetites were tuned for a world of
sparse options, seasonal scarcity, and immediate feedback when we ate something bad, then we
blew that world apart with agriculture, industry, and technology, creating tens of thousands
of novel foods and engineered hyper-palatable products—supernormal stimuli designed to exceed
anything found in nature—that hijack ancient drives for sweetness, fat, and salt in ways
evolution never prepared us for.
At the same time, most diet-related harm now shows up as slow,
chronic disease over decades rather than acute poisoning, so our dopamine reward systems and
rapid energy feedback loudly reinforce choices in the moment while satiety, inflammation, and
metabolic damage signals arrive years later, making inner guidance noisy and unreliable.
Meanwhile, humans are wildly variable in genetics, microbiome, culture, trauma, activity, and
environment, so what heals one person can harm another, yet our storytelling brains are wired
to overgeneralize from personal relief or transformation into universal rules ("keto healed me,
so everyone should eat this way"; "veganism changed my life, so humans are herbivores"), and
these rules spread as identity markers.
Nutrition science itself is hard and slow, plagued by
confounders, self-reporting errors, short trial durations, and mostly observational data,
creating space for ideology to substitute for evidence and for selective interpretation to
look like certainty. All of this is embedded in an economic and media system where powerful
industries (meat and dairy, ultra-processed foods, supplements, plant-based packaged products,
"biohacking" and wellness brands) have strong incentives to frame partial truths as total
answers and to keep us oscillating between branded extremes rather than quietly settling into
what works. Add cultural and religious food norms, moral beliefs about animals and nature, and
the way modern medicine and infrastructure buffer us from the immediate consequences of our
choices, and the result is that instead of a stable, embodied sense of what to eat, we navigate
competing frameworks, each locally valid and contextually limited, with no master key.
Our appetites were tuned for a world of sparse options, seasonal scarcity, and immediate feedback when we ate something harmful. That world no longer exists.
Agriculture, industry, and technology created tens of thousands of products engineered to be more rewarding than anything in nature, hijacking drives for sweetness, fat, and salt.
Diet-related harm now appears as slow, chronic disease over decades. Dopamine rewards reinforce choices now, while metabolic damage signals arrive years later.
Genetics, microbiome, culture, trauma, activity, and environment vary so widely that what heals one person can destabilize another—yet we generalize personal relief into universal law.
Nutrition research is plagued by confounders, self-reporting errors, short trials, and observational data—creating space for ideology to substitute for evidence.
Powerful industries (meat, dairy, processed foods, supplements, wellness brands) benefit from framing partial truths as total answers and keeping us oscillating between extremes.
Food is culture, religion, ethics, and self-story. Diets become identity markers, making honest course-correction feel like betrayal.
If certainty is structurally blocked, the task shifts from finding the answer to navigating wisely under uncertainty.
Trade the idea of one perfect diet for a small set of pattern families that tend to work for many people, then tune them to individual context and values.
Prefer foods you can mentally trace from origin to plate. The more steps, factories, and brand narratives required, the more cautiously you should proceed.
"Vegan," "carnivore," "keto," "Mediterranean"—these are hypotheses to be tested against your biology, not religions to defend. Loyalty belongs to truth, not labels.
Use both lived experience (energy, mood, digestion, sleep) and objective markers (bloodwork, body composition, performance) measured over months, not days.
Before adopting a strong claim, ask: Who benefits if this is true? Who pays if it's false? Follow the money and the identity stakes.
Almost all serious frameworks agree: minimize ultra-processed foods, eat more plants and fiber, reduce sugar, sleep well, move regularly. Start there.
There is no master key, only competing frameworks that are locally valid and contextually limited. Your work is to choose one or two workable maps, test them against your own biology and values, and keep updating as reality talks back.
In a world engineered to confuse your instincts, wisdom looks less like certainty and more like careful, ongoing calibration. We are not broken for being confused—we are responding rationally to a system designed to prevent clarity.