Weaponizing UPF Warnings for Political Gain: The Dark Side of Nutritional Science

It begins, as these things usually do, in a well-lit grocery aisle with a subtle scent of warm bread and floor cleaner. A figure is standing in front of a wall of boxes, including snack bars, cereal, and “high protein” cookies. They are flipping the packages over as if they were reading tea leaves. The list of ingredients is a little different. It’s a billboard on the front. Between the two, the term “ultra-processed” has evolved into a sort of political gimmick that is practical, direct, and simple to present to cameras.

UPF warnings weren’t created overnight. The NOVA framework, which originated in Brazil’s public health tradition, provided researchers with a vocabulary to discuss the transition from meals to industrial formulations in modern diets. It’s not just “junk food,” but goods designed for scale, shelf life, and hyperpalatability; these are usually identified by industrial processes and additives rather than by cooking methods. Numerous studies have been conducted over time linking excessive UPF consumption to a wide range of negative effects, including obesity, cardiometabolic issues, and even specific mental health consequences. In fact, a significant Lancet series made the case for more robust and well-coordinated policy.

However, “this pattern correlates with risk” and “this particular product should be treated like contraband” are not the same thing. Politics steps in with a megaphone to fill that void. Some politicians may have realized what marketers realized decades ago: creating a villain is the quickest way to garner attention. “UPFs” works because it seems intuitive but has a scientific sound. You don’t have to argue over specific nutrients because it suggests labs, vats, and anonymous factories. You simply indicate the procedure; the rest is left to the imagination.

As this plays out, it seems as though nutritional science is being drawn into a well-known drama: innocence versus immorality, safeguarding children, penalizing corporations, and disgrace the “other side.” UPF warnings can be used in two different ways at once, which is a rhetorical device. They are used as a hammer by one camp to control everything with barcodes, tax that, and ban this. The opposing viewpoint uses the same scientific ambiguity as a shield: since definitions are clumsy, policy must wait, and nothing changes. Both parties achieve their goals: ambiguity when accountability is reached and clarity in public messaging.

The industry has rarely played a subtle role in this. Corporate food companies have long financed studies, supported “educational” initiatives, and influenced lawmakers, influencing the questions posed and the volume of the responses. Restricting marketing, restricting UPFs in public institutions, and strengthening regulations regarding placement and promotion are all discussed in the Lancet policy paper in the series. These ideas often lead to instant counter-messaging about “consumer choice” and “food affordability.” Additionally, the affordability point is genuine. It’s just convenient that when the topic of profitable product limitations comes up, it becomes the most urgent.

And then there’s cherry-picking, the politician’s favorite tactic. Because a single additive creates a clean villain, it becomes the headline. An example of a story that spreads easily is the U.S. FDA’s decision to withdraw authorization for FD&C Red No. 3—one color, one decision, one date. The public may learn the wrong lesson—”the entire food system is poisoning you, and only my party can save you”—or the correct one—”regulators can act when evidence and law demand it.” Better politics is the second lesson. Additionally, it is a quicker path to public cynicism.

In the meantime, the science continues to do what it does best: slithering along, debating itself, and improving terminology. Depending on the poster’s preexisting beliefs, even WHO‘s 2023 guideline on non-sugar sweeteners—careful, conditional, allergic to overclaiming—was swiftly reduced to snappy social media content: “Sweeteners don’t work” or “Sweeteners are dangerous.” The subtleties—that people don’t consume nutrients in a vacuum, that substitution effects are important, and that short-term trials and long-term patterns can indicate different directions—do not fit on a placard.

What happens to trust is the most sinister aspect of weaponizing UPF warnings. Even when warnings are justified, people stop paying attention if nutrition is presented as a rigged game—scientists for sale, regulators sleeping, everyone lying. And when the next significant public health initiative comes around, it is viewed through the same weary prism: “Who benefits?” That’s the right question sometimes. Occasionally, it turns into a reflex that automatically casts doubt on every response.

A more honest politics would acknowledge two things at once: the category itself is blunt enough to be abused, and diets heavy in UPF appear harder to defend as “normal.” In addition to avoiding the cheesy thrill of certainty, it would handle conflicts of interest like contamination rather than merely inconvenience. Because the reality is less dramatic: the harm is cumulative, the incentives are not aligned, and the solutions—better school food, labeling reform, marketing restrictions, and subsidies—tend to be slow, costly, and dull. The slogan-version of UPF is alluring for precisely this reason. Even if the aisle remains unchanged, it gives people the impression that they took action.