In April, at the Ted conference in Vancouver, BC, I watched a woman pull a variety of mushroom powders from her purse, scoop them into a thermos, and add hot water from a nearby tea station to make an earthy beverage.
Intrigued, I asked about her favorite health practices, and she started describing a recent trip to Costa Rica to get plasmapheresis.
“It’s when they take your old plasma out, and they replace it with new, fresh plasma,” she explained.
“Donated plasma?” I asked, picturing a commune’s worth of Bryan Johnson’s teenage sons, milked daily for vital proteins. But she said it had been synthetic plasma, as a detox treatment intended to manage an autoimmune disease.
Plasmapheresis can effectively remove contaminants, such as some heavy metals, from the blood of people with specific health conditions, including autoimmune and blood disease, organ failure, and for those who have recently undergone organ transplants.
However, for healthy individuals, plasmapheresis cannot improve on the body’s natural detoxification processes, which are efficiently handled by the kidneys, liver, skin, lungs and other organs – for free. Plus, most heavy metals of concern accumulate in our organs and only trace amounts can be removed in blood.
Elective plasmapheresis for healthy people represents yet another manifestation of the myth of detoxing. Private clinics with varying degrees of oversight offer it, attracting rich medical tourists – even healthy ones.
In an April 2023 Instagram post about her plasma detox treatment, the former professional racecar driver Danica Patrick described the $10,000 treatment as one that “cleans a vast majority of the blood”, getting “rid of metals and mold”.
To illustrate, she holds up a sack of dark amber liquid. “The dark bag is my old plasma,” she writes.
Healthy plasma has the color of dark urine – and that’s perfectly normal. Patrick’s admittedly startling post perpetuates the misconception that toxins in our body manifest as muck that we could cut through like grease in a dish detergent commercial, if only we had the right tool.
***
That methods like cleanses, juice fasts, supplements and sauna sessions can detoxify the body is among the most misleading wellness claims. “Detox” practices might feel good, have a place in someone’s personal routine, lead to weight loss or create a placebo effect, but experts have repeatedly debunked claims that they meaningfully remove toxins from our bodies. In fact, in some cases, they may do the opposite by harming our built-in detoxification systems; nutritional supplements account for 20% of toxic liver damage in the US.
Aside from medical interventions prescribed for specific conditions, there’s almost nothing we can do to help our bodies detox more effectively. Instead, it’s good practice to stay hydrated, get adequate rest, exercise and maintain good nutrition with a balanced diet high in vitamin-rich plants, all of which support the function of our kidneys, liver and other organs.
Yet the idea of clearing out our bodies has captivated the public imagination for millennia. “We’ve been doing some version of detoxing since antiquity,” says Dr Christopher Labos, a cardiologist, epidemiologist and the author of 2023’s Does Coffee Cause Cancer? And 8 More Myths about the Food We Eat. Only with the development of modern medicine and germ theory have we realized “that much of that rationale of detoxing doesn’t actually hold true”, he says.
The current moment is no different. In fact, we may be talking about, believing in, and spending more money on detoxing than ever. Research estimates the global market for detox wellness products will rise from $49bn in 2019 to $80.4bn by 2030. In 2018 alone, Americans spent more than $62m on detox teas. And with “detox” on the label, even basic products are sold at a premium.
Social media is a breeding ground for detox content. On TikTok, more than 132m posts use the hashtag #detox, detailing how to fill your belly button with castor oil or drink dangerous borax highballs. Influencers can earn income through affiliate links to dubious detox products on TikTok or Instagram. Users can grow their audience by sharing health “hacks” that span from pointless to harmful, broadcasting their beliefs that lemon water revolutionized their health or that most Americans have a stomach full of parasites.
Why are we so susceptible to detox claims? It doesn’t help that most detox hacks bear a sheen of logic, making them psychologically appealing even when spurious (I once bought liquid chlorophyll because it seemed correct that drinking pure green plant essence would bolster my health). Nor that mainstream medical institutions leave many people feeling dismissed, making them more receptive to unverified health advice.
Almost a decade ago in the Guardian, the German physician Edzard Ernst described commercial detox products, like prefab cleanses and tinctures, as a “criminal exploitation of the gullible”, claiming they promised “a simple remedy that frees us of our sins”.
“When most of us utter the word ‘detox’, it’s usually when we’re bleary-eyed and stumbling out of the wrong end of a heavy weekend,” the article stated, and it’s true that online searches for “detox” reliably surge in January, after weeks of holiday indulgence.
It’s easy to dismiss hungover hordes desperate for a quick fix, wellness fanatics who appropriate cultural traditions or those whose health-consciousness has tipped over into conspiratorial mania.
But for the most part, people who are interested in detoxing seem to just want to treat their bodies well.
This is a reasonable desire, especially in light of our growing understanding about the many contaminants in our environments and bodies. Recent research on microplastics, PFAS, persistent organic pollutants (POPs), endocrine disruptors and air pollution paints a disturbing picture of how contact with everyday products and pollutants may harm us.
Even traditionally virtuous behaviors may cause health problems. Last year, researchers found PFAS in most American kale; organic kale harbors even more of the chemicals than its conventionally grown counterparts. A recent study by researchers at Ocean Conservancy and the University of Toronto found microplastic particles in 88% of protein sources, including seafood, beef, chicken and tofu. Millions of Americans have unsafe drinking water. A growing body of research is exploring how we may be dermally absorbing harmful chemicals from synthetic clothing like yoga pants, especially when we work out and sweat. When even flossing our teeth carries the risk of harmful chemical exposure, the question of how to do the right thing feels impossible to answer.
***
While there is some early research on effective ways of removing plastics and chemicals from our bodies, we’re woefully short on solutions beyond reducing our exposure to harmful compounds. This lack of recourse only exacerbates the fundamental, collective sense of disempowerment and betrayal, compounded by the longstanding injustice of marginalized communities having disproportionately borne the brunt of toxic exposures for decades.
Labos emphasizes that people need access to quality medical care above all else, so that their medical questions can be answered by trustworthy experts, and that the role of a strong scientific education is paramount when it comes to helping people understand why detox products often don’t work the way their marketing suggests.
Buying a detox supplement at the drugstore is “obviously much more appealing and easier to grasp on to than the real solution” to environmental pollution that affects us, says Labos. Yet, by hyperfixating on mostly futile attempts to purify our individual bodies, we allow industry to shift the burden of detoxification on to us, rather than addressing the root cause of contamination. “The real solution to environmental pollution is we stop polluting the air, the water,” he says. “We need to pass legislation to address these issues in the same way that we addressed the depletion of the ozone layer,” he says. “We have fixed similar problems before. We just have to do it again.”
If we started thinking about detoxification as prevention at the source, we could reroute the energy and emotion we expend on buying and trying products and treatments toward collective demands for harm mitigation. We could stop trying to cleanse our colons and focus on forcing stricter regulations on corporations that treat our environment like a toilet. We could save money on liquid chlorophyll and support government spending on PFAS elimination in waterways instead.
“Anyone who says, ‘I have a detox treatment’ is profiting from a false claim and is by definition a crook,” Ernst proclaimed in the Guardian 10 years ago. But our willingness to embrace wishful thinking and wellness trends isn’t criminal; it’s understandable. Nevertheless, if we want to purge pollution, our efforts must extend beyond the body – that’s our bitter pill to swallow.
