Religion has long promised salvation from suffering and the hope of a better life. Today, food carries similar promises: better health, reduced suffering for animals, and a kinder impact on the planet. People adopt diets as moral or spiritual choices, seeking meaning and control through what they eat. But like every belief system, these dietary movements attract extremes that can turn their best intentions into something toxic.
In 2017, the “clean eating” trend—cherished by bloggers and social media influencers for its aesthetic and glossy promises—came under heavy criticism. Many of the purported health claims surrounding miraculous plant extracts and miracle cures were exposed as unfounded. Journalists and scientists challenged the movement, prompting a stream of critical pieces and books that dismantled the more extreme assertions.
As the backlash grew, many of the movement’s loudest voices quietly retreated. References to “clean eating” disappeared from blogs and Instagram feeds, and the once-ubiquitous hashtags dwindled. By year’s end the term felt like a relic, spoken of in guarded tones as if it were a passing, embarrassing fad.
One prominent figure who remained in the spotlight was Ella Woodward of Deliciously Ella. Compared to some proponents of extreme diets, Woodward promoted a mostly plant-based approach that, on its own merits, included nutritious recipes. Even critics conceded that many individual dishes popularized by the movement could be genuinely healthy. Still, when scrutiny intensified, many influencers recoiled—reluctant to face cameras or defend claims they hadn’t fully researched.
With clean eating publicly discredited, I wondered which restrictive diet would capture the cultural imagination next. Trends come and go, but the appetite for stringent food rules persists. The notable successor, I realized, was veganism—now widely embraced and framed more explicitly by ethical concerns than by wellness buzzwords.
Clean eating, in many ways, acted as a polished, commodified version of plant-based eating. It offered tiers of restriction—remove gluten, avoid refined sugar, add superfood syrups—allowing people to curate an image of purity. That presentation made plant-based food accessible and attractive without invoking the stern political or ethical language historically associated with veganism. In short, clean eating functioned as a gateway, normalizing a plant-focused diet through lifestyle imagery and Instagram-friendly recipes.
I noticed the shift personally when a non-social-media-savvy friend—who initially embraced a so-called “clean” approach via cultural osmosis—moved toward veganism. Her transition felt less like a political conversion and more like the next step in a longstanding pattern of restrictive choices: gluten avoidance, refined sugar fear, and eventually, a full ethical commitment to excluding animal products. Clean eating had already prepared the ground.
Observers have also pointed out how vegan events and spaces often attract a youthful, image-conscious crowd. That visibility amplified the trend on social platforms, where images of vibrant, well-curated meals and attractive participants spread rapidly. The result was a cultural moment in which plant-based diets enjoyed the same influencer-fueled growth that clean eating had previously benefited from.
Historically, fad diets that gain traction tend to be punitive or restrictive—Atkins, Paleo, intermittent fasting, and veganism among them. More balanced, evidence-based patterns like the Mediterranean or traditional Japanese diets rarely become flashpoint trends, perhaps because they lack the moral overlay that fuels social media storytelling.
Restrictive diets appeal to a desire for control: cutting out food groups becomes a visible, personal statement. Movements like gluten-free eating persist partly because people feel empowered by exercising choice over their consumption. Moralizing food choices is nothing new; ancient texts distinguished “clean” and “unclean” foods, and modern dietary movements tap into the same emotional terrain. Veganism explicitly roots itself in an ethical code about animal welfare, while clean eating invoked notions of purity—both promising not just physical improvement but moral elevation.
Periods of social and political instability often coincide with turns toward stricter personal discipline. In the 1830s, for example, new health movements rose alongside political change; people sought stability by controlling what they ate. Today’s uncertain climate similarly encourages movements that promise order and moral clarity through diet. In that sense, dietary choices can resemble religious choices—systems that satisfy psychological needs for meaning, ritual, and community.
When traditional religious attendance declines, other structures can fill the gap. Food habits and dietary communities offer ritual, identity, and belonging. People derive comfort and self-worth from practicing these disciplines: churchgoers, twelve-step participants, and committed vegans all report renewed purpose and solace. The core motivator is similar—finding a framework that reduces anxiety and restores a sense of agency.
The downside appears when these movements harden into dogma or when online spaces amplify extremism. The same platforms that helped normalize plant-based food can also breed intolerance and misinformation. The healthiest response, whether one chooses veganism, a balanced omnivorous diet, or something in between, is to retain compassion, curiosity, and humility.
Food can be a powerful source of meaning and wellbeing. If it becomes your guiding principle, remember the virtues that make all humane movements valuable: empathy, openness, and moderation. Beware only the one true hazard that infects movements of every kind—radicalization fostered by anonymous corners of the internet.