There is a particular kind of confidence that comes with reading an ingredient label out loud and pausing dramatically at every multisyllabic word. The longer the name, the louder the suspicion. I recently watched this happen in real time, the conclusion delivered with a knowing nod: If you can’t pronounce it, you shouldn’t be eating it.
The irony arrived almost immediately. The allegedly alarming ingredients were not synthetic poisons or obscure laboratory experiments. They were thiamine mononitrate, riboflavin, niacin, pyridoxine hydrochloride, cyanocobalamin, and folic acid—scientific nomenclature for B-complex vitamins and a form of vitamin B9. Nutrients so well studied that their absence once caused epidemics of preventable disease.
That moment lingered with me, not because it was unusual, but because it was familiar. The phrase itself has become a kind of nutritional shorthand, passed along as wisdom without context, evidence, or curiosity. It sounds like discernment, but it functions more like a filter for discomfort. What we are really reacting to is not danger, but unfamiliar language.
At some point in our lives, most of us could not pronounce the words vegetable or fruit. We learned them gradually, through repetition and exposure, long before we understood photosynthesis, dietary fiber, or micronutrient density. No one suggested we avoid carrots because we mispronounced them. Language acquisition has never been a prerequisite for nourishment.
Scientific terminology exists for precision, not deception. Latin- and Greek-derived names describe molecular structure, bioavailability, and function within the body. Ascorbic acid does not become less effective because it is not labeled “vitamin C.” Tocopherol does not stop acting as an antioxidant because it sounds unfamiliar. Pronunciation is not a proxy for toxicity.
This is where the conversation quietly widens beyond food. The same instinct that treats scientific language as suspicious shows up elsewhere: in public health, in climate science, in medicine. Complexity becomes evidence of conspiracy. Expertise is reframed as elitism. Familiarity is mistaken for safety.
The fear of so-called “chemicals” is a perfect example. Everything we consume is chemical. Dihydrogen monoxide is water. Molecular oxygen sustains life. Botulinum toxin is natural. The distinction that matters is not whether a substance is synthetic or naturally occurring, but its dose-response relationship, its metabolic pathway, and the body of peer-reviewed evidence supporting its use.
Nowhere is this clearer than in food fortification, one of the most successful public health interventions of the last century. Many of the ingredients people recoil from on labels were added intentionally after epidemiological research demonstrated their role in preventing disease at the population level.
Folic acid, the synthetic form of folate, was added to enriched grains after decades of data showed it dramatically reduced neural tube defects such as spina bifida and anencephaly. Iodine, introduced through iodized salt, nearly eliminated endemic goiter and supported normal thyroid hormone synthesis. Vitamin D fortification in milk helped prevent rickets by improving calcium absorption and bone mineralization.
Niacin, or vitamin B3, was added to flour to prevent pellagra, a condition once characterized by dermatitis, diarrhea, dementia, and death. Thiamine supplementation reduced cases of beriberi, a neurological and cardiovascular disorder linked to polished rice consumption. Riboflavin fortification supported cellular respiration and energy metabolism, preventing deficiency syndromes that disproportionately affected low-income populations.
Iron fortification addressed widespread iron-deficiency anemia, particularly among children and people who menstruate. Calcium was added to juices and plant-based milks to support skeletal integrity and reduce osteoporosis risk. Omega-3 fatty acids, including docosahexaenoic acid and eicosapentaenoic acid, were incorporated into certain foods to support cardiovascular and neurocognitive health.
Even fluoride—though added to water rather than food—stands as one of the most rigorously studied and effective public health measures for preventing dental caries. None of these interventions were based on vibes. They were based on randomized controlled trials, longitudinal studies, and decades of biochemical research.
Yet in misinformation culture, certainty often replaces understanding. Slogans outperform nuance. Fear feels empowering because it requires no follow-up questions. “If you can’t pronounce it” becomes a substitute for learning what something is, why it exists, and how it functions physiologically.
This kind of thinking rewards confidence over accuracy and skepticism over literacy. It frames ignorance as intuition and casts curiosity as naïveté. Most dangerously, it teaches people to distrust the very systems—nutrition science, public health research, regulatory review—that have measurably extended life expectancy and reduced disease burden.
A more honest approach to food, and to information more broadly, starts with different questions. What is the compound’s biochemical role? How is it metabolized? What does the preponderance of evidence say about its safety and efficacy? Who benefits from its inclusion, and who would be harmed by its absence?
We deserve better heuristics than fear dressed up as wisdom. If pronunciation were the standard for safety, many of us would have been malnourished long before kindergarten.
Sometimes the ingredients with the longest names are not the problem. Sometimes they are the reason entire populations are healthier than they once were.
Done. I’ve rewritten the piece into a fully narrative essay that subtly but clearly connects the food-label slogan to misinformation culture as a whole, without turning it into a manifesto or losing any scientific detail.
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