My Grandmother Was My First Drug Dealer

Three Hours on Addiction. Ninety Seconds on Food.

I recently listened to a three-hour conversation between Dr. Andrew Huberman and Dr. Keith Humphreys, one of the world's leading addiction researchers. They covered everything: alcohol, cannabis, opioids, gambling, social media, pornography, stimulants, even the neuroscience of why we get hooked on slot machines.

The discussion was brilliant. Compassionate. Evidence-based. Exactly the kind of thing I wish existed when I was deep in my own struggle.

And food addiction? About ninety seconds. Maybe less.

In a conversation that lasted longer than most movies, the substance that affects more people than all the others combined got barely a mention. And the one time it did come up, it was almost dismissive—a passing reference to people who "gain 30 pounds because they're just eating and eating and eating" after getting sober from other substances.

As if food dysfunction is just what happens when you can't find "real" drugs.

I'm not angry at Dr. Huberman or Dr. Humphreys. They're doing important work. But this gap—this massive, glaring blind spot—represents everything that's wrong with how we talk about food in this culture.

And it's time someone said it out loud.

The Research Applies. Why Won't They Apply It?

Here's what frustrates me: everything they said about addiction applies to food. Everything.

Dr. Humphreys defined addiction as "the persistence of doing something that is harmful." He described how addicts will sacrifice relationships, jobs, housing, health—how they'll continue a behavior even as their lives fall apart around them.

Sound familiar?

How many of us have eaten in ways we knew were harmful? Not once, but hundreds of times? Thousands? How many of us have chosen food over connection, over our health, over being present for the people we love?

Dr. Humphreys talked about the "progressive narrowing of the things that bring one pleasure"—how addiction gradually strips away everything else until the substance is the only thing left that feels good.

I lived that. For decades. The world got smaller and smaller until food was the only reliable source of comfort, the only thing I could count on, the only friend that never disappointed me.

They discussed how addicts lie not because they're bad people, but because the addiction creates impossible situations. The shame spiral. The hiding. The elaborate explanations for why the money is gone, why you weren't where you said you'd be, why you're eating alone in the car.

They talked about how certain people have genetic predispositions that make substances more rewarding for them than for others—how some people drink alcohol and feel amazing while others feel sick. How those who feel amazing are at much greater risk.

Do you know what ultra-processed food does to certain nervous systems? To certain gut microbiomes? To people whose reward circuitry was wired in childhood for sugar and fat and salt as primary sources of comfort?

All of this research applies. But they won't apply it.

Why?

The Uncomfortable Truth: Food Addiction Implicates Everyone

Here's what I think is really going on.

When we talk about heroin addiction, we're talking about "those people." When we talk about alcoholism, we're talking about "people who have a problem." When we talk about gambling addiction, we're talking about people who made bad choices.

But when we talk about food addiction?

We're talking about grandmother's cookies.

We're talking about the meal your mother made when you came home from school. The cake at every birthday. The holiday table groaning with abundance. The love expressed through food in every culture on earth.

We're talking about something everyone does, multiple times a day, that's woven into every social interaction, every celebration, every comfort, every memory.

To acknowledge food addiction is to acknowledge that the food system itself—the one we all participate in, the one that feeds our children, the one that employs millions of people—is an addiction delivery system.

That's uncomfortable. So we don't talk about it.

"It's Just About Willpower"

Dr. Humphreys made a beautiful point about how the 12-step program works: "Your best thinking got you here."

In other words, the intellectual analysis, the planning, the trying harder—none of it was enough. Because addiction isn't a thinking problem. It's a brain problem. A nervous system problem. A reward circuitry problem.

They discussed this at length for alcohol. For opioids. For gambling.

But somehow, when it comes to food, we still hear: "Just eat less and move more." "It's simple thermodynamics." "You just need more willpower."

Can you imagine saying that to someone with an opioid addiction? "Just use less. It's simple. You just need more willpower."

We wouldn't. Because we understand that opioids hijack the reward system in ways that make "just stopping" neurologically impossible without support, community, understanding, and often medical intervention.

Ultra-processed food does the same thing.

The science is there. The research on how engineered foods affect dopamine, how they dysregulate hunger hormones, how they alter the gut microbiome in ways that drive more consumption—it's all there.

But we don't treat it like addiction research. We treat it like a character flaw.

My Grandmother Was My First Drug Pusher

I say this with love. Real love. Because my grandmother loved me fiercely, and food was how she showed it.

But here's the truth: every time she handed me a cookie to soothe my tears, she was teaching my nervous system that food equals comfort. Every time she urged me to eat more because I was "too thin," she was encoding the message that food equals love. Every time she made my favorite meal because I was sad, she was wiring my brain to seek sugar and fat and salt when I needed emotional regulation.

She didn't know she was doing this. She was doing what her mother did, and her mother before her. She was passing down generations of love expressed through food.

But neurochemically? She was my first drug pusher.

I can say this now without blame. Without anger. With genuine gratitude for her love and genuine understanding of what she unknowingly taught me.

But I couldn't say it for decades. Because to say it felt like betraying her. Like betraying the whole system of love and family and connection that food represented.

This is why food addiction is so hard to talk about. The substance is wrapped in love. Calling it addictive feels like calling love addictive.

Which, in some ways, is exactly what happened.

What the Addiction Research Actually Tells Us

Let me translate some of what Dr. Humphreys and Dr. Huberman discussed into what it means for those of us who struggle with food:

They said: Addiction involves genetic predisposition—some people's brains respond to substances more intensely than others.

For food, this means: Some of us have nervous systems, gut microbiomes, and reward circuitry that respond to ultra-processed food in ways that create genuine addiction. It's not weakness. It's biology.

They said: The most dangerous time to start using a substance is when the brain is still plastic—in childhood and adolescence.

For food, this means: Those of us who learned to use food for emotional regulation as children have the deepest, most entrenched patterns. We didn't choose this. Our brains were shaped before we had any say in the matter.

They said: Community is essential for recovery. "Hang out with other people who are trying to make the same change."

For food, this means: We need each other. Not just for accountability, but for the neurochemical experience of being seen, heard, and understood. Isolation makes recovery nearly impossible.

They said: Identity change matters more than willpower. "You start acquiring more reasons not to use that you didn't have at the moment you started."

For food, this means: Healing isn't about white-knuckling through meal plans. It's about becoming someone for whom the old patterns no longer make sense. Someone with a life so full of connection and meaning that food returns to its proper place.

They said: Understanding what the substance does FOR you is essential before you can release it.

For food, this means: Before we can let go of our patterns, we need to understand what they're providing. Safety? Comfort? A moment of peace? An escape from feelings too big to hold? The substance isn't the enemy. It's been trying to help us survive.

The Gap I'm Trying to Fill

I've spent years connecting dots that mainstream research won't connect. Reading addiction neuroscience and seeing my own face. Reading trauma research and understanding why food became my refuge. Reading attachment theory and finally grasping why I couldn't "just stop."

And then I look at how food dysfunction is treated—by doctors, by psychologists, by the culture at large—and I want to scream.

They know that addiction is a brain disease, not a moral failing. They know that community is essential for recovery. They know that shame makes everything worse. They know that understanding the "why" matters more than willpower.

But they won't apply it to food.

So I'm applying it myself. And I'm inviting you to join me.

What I Wish Dr. Huberman Would Explore

I'd love to hear a three-hour conversation about food addiction that covered:

• The neuroscience of how ultra-processed food hijacks reward circuitry
• The genetic and epigenetic factors that create differential susceptibility
• The role of childhood emotional learning in establishing food patterns
• The gut microbiome's influence on cravings and food decisions
• The attachment patterns that make food a primary source of comfort
• The shame spiral and how it perpetuates the behavior
• The community structures that support lasting recovery
• The difference between abstinence and true healing
• The industries that profit from keeping us sick

That conversation would help millions of people. Maybe tens of millions.

Because the people struggling with food aren't different from the people struggling with alcohol or opioids or gambling. We're running the same software. We're dealing with the same hijacked reward systems. We're fighting the same neurological battles.

We just don't get taken seriously.

You're Not Broken. You're Biological.

Here's what I want you to take from this:

If you've struggled with food in ways that feel like addiction—the loss of control, the using despite harm, the shame spiral, the progressive narrowing of your life—you're not crazy. You're not weak. You're not lacking willpower.

You're experiencing exactly what the addiction researchers describe. You're just experiencing it with a substance that everyone uses, that's woven into every social situation, that's marketed to children, that's associated with love and comfort and family.

Which makes it harder. Not easier. Harder.

And you deserve the same compassion, the same evidence-based treatment, the same community support that any other addict receives.

That's what I'm trying to build. That's what this work is about.

You were never broken. You were biological. Your brain responded exactly as it was designed to respond to substances engineered for "maximum palatability"—industry-speak for "you can't stop eating."

And there is a way forward that doesn't require you to white-knuckle through the rest of your life. A way that works with your biology instead of against it. A way that addresses the underlying needs that food has been trying to meet.

I know because I've walked it. I'm still walking it.

And I'd be honored to walk it with you.

If this resonated with you, I'd love to hear about it. Drop a comment below or reach out directly. And if you want to go deeper into understanding your own patterns—the neuroscience, the attachment, the nervous system piece—my book "Thinking Outside the Box: A Revolutionary Approach to Food Dysfunction" was written for exactly this and we are exploring it in my Advanced Recovery Project. Sign up! 

Because you deserve to be taken seriously. Even if mainstream addiction research hasn't caught up yet.

With love and in this with you,

Sonja