Food Additives and the MAHA Disconnect

How tearing down the FDA undermines their own fight for “cleaner” food

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Last week, someone sent me one of those posts I’m sure many of you have seen. The kind where a creator shows the “then” and “now” ingredients of an ultra-processed food side by side. The text usually says something like: “I ate this as a kid and I was fine.” And then replies: “No you didn’t.”

These posts are everywhere, and they always follow the same formula. They go viral because they’re simple, visual, and play into a nostalgic fear about how much worse our food has supposedly become. But they’re also often incredibly misleading.

The one I was sent included Gatorade, which is funny because I’ve used that exact same example before to show just how off-base these comparisons can be. In this post, the “then” frame showed two bottles (fruit punch and lemon lime Gatorade) next to a list of just five ingredients: water, sugar, salt, potassium, and lemon juice. The “now” frame showed the modern fruit punch label with its longer list of ingredients.

At first glance, it makes for a compelling comparison. Until you realize that the “then” frame is literally showing two different flavors, with different colors and flavorings, but claiming they both had the exact same five ingredients. Which is absurd. Those drinks clearly had more in them than water, sugar, salt, potassium, and lemon juice.

When I pointed this out, some of the creator’s followers pushed back, saying I was missing the point, and that she wasn’t talking about the image itself, but about the original Gatorade. But that’s misleading too.

Because the original Gatorade wasn’t something you could buy at a store. It was a lab-made drink created in 1965 by a team of researchers at the University of Florida to help the Gators football team deal with dehydration and sodium loss in the Florida heat (hence the name Gatorade). By all accounts, it was super salty and often described as “unpleasant.” And importantly, that five-ingredient concoction was never sold to the public.

When Stokely-Van Camp acquired the rights in 1967 and launched Gatorade commercially, they reformulated it into something people would actually want to drink. And the ridiculous irony is that the late 1960s version actually had more ingredients than the drink today. It included water, glucose, citric acid, salt, sodium citrate, gum acacia, sodium orthophosphate, potassium chloride, natural and artificial flavors, sodium saccharine, artificial color, and even calcium cyclamate, which was a sweetener that is now banned in the U.S. after studies linked it to bladder cancer. [See a bottle for sale on Ebay here.]

So the idea that Gatorade used to be “clean” and simple and only later became full of additives is flat-out wrong. In reality, the very first Gatorade sold to consumers had more additives than today’s formula, including some that are no longer considered safe thanks to the work of our regulatory agencies.

Why this matters

I could leave this at “these posts are misleading,” but there’s a bigger issue here. These kinds of ingredient memes exemplify the broader problem with the MAHA movement. Many of the outcomes they say they want, including fewer additives, stronger oversight, and safer food, are things that those of us in science and public health also want. But instead of engaging honestly with what real reform would require, they exaggerate risks, cherry-pick evidence, and mislead people about the science. That makes it nearly impossible to have the kind of genuine conversation we need about how to strengthen food oversight.

These kinds of ingredient memes intentionally play into fear-based marketing that makes people feel like the food system is actively poisoning them, and they reinforce a conspiratorial view of science and regulation. The FDA becomes the villain, scientists are cast as untrustworthy, and the solution is to “wake up” and reject the system altogether.

That narrative is powerful and dangerous because it directs people’s anger away from the real drivers of poor health, like poverty, food insecurity, and corporate capture of our food system, and toward the very institutions meant to protect public health. And once trust in those systems is gone, it becomes easier for political actors to dismantle them, which is exactly what we’re seeing now. FDA oversight being gutted, staff fired, and funding slashed, all while influencers and MAHA-aligned voices double down on the idea that we need fewer additives in our food supply, which requires more regulation, not less. See the disconnect?

If the MAHA movement truly wants a “cleaner” food supply, they should be fighting for a stronger FDA, not a weaker one. They should want more scientists assessing additives before they hit the market, more resources for post-market surveillance, and more transparency in the system overall. Instead, by eroding trust in science and regulation, they’re clearing the path for the exact opposite of what they claim to want: a food system with less oversight, more corporate self-policing, and fewer safeguards for public health.

The Backstory of Food Additives in the U.S.

If we want to have an honest conversation about reform, we first need to understand how the system we have today came to be. Because our framework for regulating additives is the result of decades of policy decisions and chronic underfunding.

The modern system began in 1958, when Congress passed the Food Additives Amendment. As a result, companies introducing new additives had to provide safety data, and the FDA had to review and approve them before they entered the food supply. The law also carved out an exemption for ingredients “generally recognized as safe,” or GRAS. These were things like vinegar, salt, and baking soda that had been in the food supply for a long time and didn’t require the same level of review. And of note, artificial colors were already subject to stricter oversight, with the FDA certifying every batch.

This amendment was a big step forward to ensure the safety of our ingredients, but it came just as the number of additives was rapidly increasing. The rise of convenient, processed foods after World War II created a demand for preservatives, stabilizers, and emulsifiers that could make frozen dinners, packaged snacks, and shelf-stable baked goods possible. The supermarket boom of the 1960s also meant shoppers now expected a lot of choice, which drove manufacturers to churn out new flavors, colors, and textures, which required more additives. Industrial agriculture and nationwide distribution made shelf life and consistency essential. And behind it all, corporate incentives to prioritize profits and growth pushed companies to develop additives that lowered costs, extended shelf life, and made foods hyper-palatable.

By the 1970s, thousands of substances were either in use or under development. The FDA was reviewing many of them through formal petitions for new food additives, mandatory approval for color additives, and ongoing surveillance of safety data, but it struggled to keep up. Its food division was far smaller than its drug division (and still is), and Congress wasn’t giving the agency the funding needed to match the pace of innovation in the food industry.

But instead of allocating more funds to help the FDA keep pace, or adopting a user-fee model like the one created in the 1990s to help the drug division handle its backlog, lawmakers and industry pushed for “efficiency” and streamlining. That pressure collided with a broader political push for deregulation, and in 1997 the FDA shifted to a voluntary GRAS notification system. Under this system, companies could hire their own experts to determine whether a new substance qualified as GRAS—and they weren’t even required to notify the FDA. The agency could still intervene if concerns arose later, as it eventually did with partially hydrogenated oils (trans fats) in 2015 and with brominated vegetable oil in 2023. But when it came to GRAS substances, the FDA was no longer the gatekeeper for every new ingredient entering the market.

It’s important to note that this shift applied only to GRAS substances. Food additives that don’t qualify as GRAS must still go through the Food Additive Petition process, which requires pre-market FDA approval, and synthetic color additives remain under some of the strictest oversight, with every batch certified by the FDA. But the GRAS pathway is where most of the growth in new additives has occurred, and where oversight is weakest. [I wrote more about the GRAS loophole here.]

Today, the FDA regulates additives through several different pathways, depending on the type of substance:

• Food additives: New additives that don’t qualify as GRAS must go through the Food Additive Petition process. Companies have to submit toxicology studies, safety data, and details on intended use, and the FDA must approve them before they can be used in food.

• Color additives: These are regulated separately under the Color Additive Amendments of 1960. Every synthetic color batch used in food, drugs, or cosmetics must be certified by the FDA.

• GRAS substances: These are ingredients that experts generally agree are safe based on scientific evidence or long history of use. Since 1997, companies can self-determine GRAS status without FDA approval, though many voluntarily submit notices to the agency for review.

On paper, this framework gives the FDA broad authority over additives. But in practice, it has never had the resources to use that authority in the way a robust public health system would demand. GRAS notifications are voluntary, which means some additives enter the market without any FDA review at all. Post-market surveillance is limited because the agency simply doesn’t have the staff or budget to do it consistently. And as I mentioned, unlike the drug division, which is propped up by industry-paid user fees, the food division has no comparable funding stream. It has always been expected to oversee a massive, growing food system on a fraction of the resources, which is why nutrition and public health experts have been calling for stronger, better-funded food oversight for decades.

What Real Reform Would Look Like

The saddest part about all of this is that many of us in science and public health want the same things as many people in the MAHA movement. We want stronger oversight of food additives. We want better science and more rigorous risk assessments. We want more robust post-market analyses. We want to close the GRAS loophole. On the goals, there’s actually more alignment than most people realize.

Where the disconnect happens is in understanding what it would take to make those changes. The FDA isn’t the enemy here. It’s the only institution with the authority to regulate additives on behalf of the public. If we want fewer additives slipping into the food supply without oversight, that requires giving the FDA more power and resources, not less.

That’s what real reform would look like. It would mean fully funding the Food Safety Modernization Act (FSMA), a law passed under President Obama in an attempt to shift the FDA from being reactive to proactive on food safety, but which has never been given the resources to truly deliver on that promise. It would mean closing the GRAS loophole, so companies can’t introduce new substances into the food supply without FDA even knowing. It would mean giving the food division the same kind of stable funding structure the drug division has, ideally through dedicated congressional appropriations, so oversight isn’t always undercut by budget shortfalls. And it would mean expanding post-market surveillance, so that when concerns do arise, the FDA has the data and staff needed to act quickly.

That was exactly the idea behind the Biden administration’s effort to strengthen the food division. They reorganized the agency to elevate food oversight, hired Jim Jones, a seasoned regulator with deep experience in chemical safety, and bolstered the agency with new money. By FY 2025, the FDA requested $7.2 billion in total funding, a 7.4% increase over 2023 levels, including an additional $15 million specifically for food safety and nutrition programs. The goal was to revitalize pre-market review, improve post-market surveillance, and rebuild consumer trust. All things one would think MAHA supporters would want.

But that progress has been reversed under the Trump administration. Earlier this year, nearly 90 employees in the foods division, including experts in nutrition, infant formula, food chemical safety, and outbreak response, were abruptly terminated. Jim Jones resigned shortly after, saying it had become impossible to do the job he was hired to do. At the same time, thousands more FDA staff were cut through a broader restructuring effort, and leadership of the food division was handed to a political appointee with little background in food regulation but close ties to the president’s family.

RFK Jr., as HHS Secretary, has only amplified the dysfunction. Instead of building on the Biden administration’s efforts to strengthen the FDA’s food division, he has done nothing to advance real regulatory reform. Instead, he leans into talking points about “corruption,” framing the FDA as captured while quietly leaving it underfunded and understaffed. And while calling industry corrupt, his approach has been to ask those same companies to voluntarily remove additives that his wellness-influencer allies have labeled “toxic,” which is a strategy that does nothing to improve scientific oversight or strengthen the system the public actually depends on.

Final Thoughts

What MAHA is enabling is the exact opposite of what they say they want. Many in the grassroots have been manipulated into believing they’re fighting for a cleaner, safer food supply, when in reality they’re helping dismantle the very systems that would make stronger oversight possible. At the top, leaders and influencers say they want to get “toxins” out of the food supply, but what they’re really doing is eroding the FDA’s capacity to regulate additives and protect public health.

But it’s even deeper than that. Because as long as our food environment is built on prepackaged, shelf-stable, processed products, additives will be part of the system. They extend shelf life, allow foods to be distributed nationwide, and give companies the ability to compete in a marketplace designed around convenience and endless choice. They also make food accessible in environments where, largely because of policy decisions, fresh, affordable options are not easily accessible and packaged foods are often the only realistic option. And that’s the predictable outcome of decades of pro-corporate policy, agricultural consolidation, and an economy that prioritizes profit and growth above all else. It’s why some estimates suggest that about 70% of the foods in our supermarkets are now classified as ultra-processed.

If we want meaningful change, it won’t come from misleading, viral “then versus now” memes or fear-mongering about single ingredients. It requires strengthening the FDA so it can do its job, fully funding food safety laws like FSMA, closing loopholes that let companies police themselves, and investing in post-market surveillance so oversight keeps pace with innovation. And it requires tackling the bigger systems that make us so reliant on these products in the first place, like labor policies, agricultural subsidies, and a food economy designed around convenience instead of health.

That’s the real work. And it’s far harder than pointing to a label and declaring it “toxic,” or asking food corporations to swap the color they use in their ultra-processed foods. But it’s also the only path toward the safer, healthier food supply that both scientists and many MAHA supporters actually want.