The array of available protein-infused products has only grown wider in recent years.Kindamorphic/Getty Images
Samantha King is a professor in the School of Kinesiology and Health Studies at Queen’s University. Gavin Weedon is an associate professor of sociology of sport, health and the body at Nottingham Trent University. They are the co-authors of the newly released book Protein: The Making of a Nutritional Superstar.
There’s no escaping the current obsession with protein. Nor is there any underestimating the ability of food producers to squeeze a few more grams of the stuff into their latest products. The Tim Hortons protein latte, released in August, 2025, to a giddy mix of celebration and skepticism, promises a whopping 20 grams in a medium serving. That’s more than three eggs’ worth of amino acids in your morning joe.
There’s high-protein beer for exercise recovery, high-protein ice cream for performance, high-protein tortilla chips for muscle growth. If a food or beverage category exists, you can be sure there’s a protein-infused version on the market.
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After a decade spent researching the roots of protein mania, you’d expect we’d be immune to the hype. But just when we think we’ve seen everything, we discover the Buffalo Wild Wings-flavoured Espresso Proteini. Powered by Muscle Milk protein powder. And chipotle. And ethanol.
If anything, the array of protein-infused products has only grown wider – and more outrageous – in recent years. Each time we imagine we’ve reached peak protein, our expectations are surpassed again. With this, our unease about mass commercial and cultural investment in protein intensifies.
Supplemental protein is not just a harmless marketing gimmick. Beneath the spectacle are matters of real and pressing consequence.
How, then, did protein become the uber nutrient of our time, and why is this cause for concern?
The contemporary obsession with protein is rooted in what critics call “nutritionism,” a way of relating to food as a set of isolated biochemical components rather than as a matter of taste, pleasure, ethics, or sociability. In this approach, diet becomes a matter of finding the right combination of “macros” – protein, fat, carbohydrates – in order to optimize one’s body, as if it were an engine to be tinkered with.
Processed protein supplements, with guarantees of “science-backed formulas” and increasingly specific promises about recovery, growth, satiety, and longevity, are especially well-suited to a nutritionist culture.
They are also convenient. While whole-animal proteins like chicken and eggs can be purchased in increasingly portable forms, they’re not made for hustle culture the way protein bars are.
Trade in both categories is rising, but sales of processed proteins have skyrocketed, with compound growth anticipated to remain at approximately 9 per cent year over year for the foreseeable future.
Among other ills, protein supplementation and the nutritionist approach allow agribusiness to package industrial foods as healthy without addressing the environmental and physical harms integral to their production.
It also makes it possible for a product to appear healthy based on its protein content alone.
Nutritionism isn’t new. Protein’s role in reducing our bodies to biochemical processes requiring continuing dietary discipline dates back to the mid-19th century, when bolstering military might and manual labour were the political priorities of the day. If people could be made to eat more protein, they’d be better soldiers and labourers, the reasoning went.
The commodification of protein as a supplement is just as old, initially taking the form of an “extract of meat” of dubious nutritional value.
Whey protein powder is displayed on shelves at a store in Texas. The estimated global market for protein supplements reached US$24.8-billion in 2025, a figure expected to increase to US$45.7-billion by 2035.Brandon Bell/Getty Images
But today’s boom is different: protein’s allure now reaches a wider range of body projects, tethered to modern desires and anxieties, on a wildly different scale. Consider that the estimated global market for protein supplements reached US$24.8-billion in 2025, a figure expected to increase to US$45.7-billion by 2035.
Never before has a single nutrient been gifted with a halo so bright, or so profitable.
For all its popularity, there are many myths surrounding protein.
The foremost misconception to dispel is that the popularity of protein today is correlated to people’s real nutritional needs. It isn’t. There is no dearth of protein in the Canadian diet, no cavernous gap that all these products are helping to address.
Protein is in nearly everything we eat, from lettuce to potatoes. If there is one consensus in the vast and contested nutritional science on this subject, it’s that protein deficiency is extremely rare in the absence of severe hunger, or serious illness and frailty (that is, when people are struggling to get enough nutrients of any kind). In other words, the consumers caught up in today’s protein boom are ironically those who have the least to be concerned about.
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In this light, relentless questions – and worry – about how much and what kind of protein to consume are missing the point. We are reminded of this fact each time we present our work to new audiences. Try as we may to complicate protein’s unimpeachable reputation, we inevitably get asked some version of “That’s all very interesting, but how much of it should I eat?”
Not so long ago, these questions were only asked in serious bodybuilding subcultures. Now they seem to occupy almost all demographics. There are menopausal women seeking to improve their bone density, teenagers of all genders trying to lose weight or bulk up, wellness mavens chasing immunity, and seniors working to maintain their muscle mass.
Here, the power of nutritionist thinking meets with the quantitative logic of elite sports nutrition, which has infiltrated everyday eating habits. The Creme Egg flavour soft core protein bar that crept into our feeds ahead of Easter exemplifies this trend.
Picture a rim of chocolate encasing “light fluffy protein dough” and a thick centre layer of signature orange goop, or “creme egg flavour filling.”
For those who wanted their Easter treats loaded with dissonance about health, fitness, and pleasure, a protein-rich creme egg bar was the perfect seasonal confection. With two grams of sugar and 31 grams of protein, it promises something for everyone: a nutrient-packed snack, a festive indulgence, and a workout boost for those seeking to maintain their gym routine over the holiday weekend.
Was this year’s chocolate binge swiftly followed by an intense set of bicep curls to metabolize all that protein dough? If so, we hope consumers read the small print, which warns that “excessive consumption may cause laxative effect.”
Beneath its seasonal silliness, the creme egg protein bar represents the paragon of what we call the athleticization of food culture. The general population has become burdened with the fixations of high-performance sport, without the glory, the riches, or the in-built training to make use of all this protein.
The second myth to dispel is that the desire for additional protein arose organically and that the current boom is simply the market responding to consumer demand. For a recent example of how powerful interests exert influence over dietary trends, consider the impact of the meat and dairy lobbies on the design of the new Dietary Guidelines for Americans.
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The idea that the guidelines are designed to end the “war on protein” and the recommendation that some groups of Americans double their intake were understandably met with ridicule and scorn in some quarters. But the Trump administration’s enlistment of protein as its nutrient of choice was only the most recent episode in a long history of official nutrition recommendations being shaped by political and economic interests.
In this case, the change went hand in hand with a Trumpian appeal to traditional masculinity. But the protein obsession is remarkably non-partisan. The environmental politics of food make this plain: Progressives concerned about the climate crisis might prefer beans to beef, but they’re still preoccupied with their protein intake. While many on the political right try to protect old worlds built on meat proteins, progressives try to promote new ones built on plant or cellular agriculture.
What’s curious to us is that neither of these polarized affinities can shake the centrality of protein as the preferred means to their starkly different visions of the future.
What unites them is a diffuse social anxiety about protein consumption. The ubiquity of protein marketing has engendered a sense that no matter who you are or how you treat your body, you’re not getting enough. It thrives on the promise that ingesting more protein might somehow help you get ahead, or, conversely, that falling short of an ideal intake might mean you get left behind.
In other words, the protein boom is sustained by a concerted blend of anxiety and the quest for self-optimization amid widespread social decline and environmental turmoil.
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This anxiety makes sense when set against a growing distrust of market forces, climate and labour precarity, the threat of nuclear war, and existential insecurity about the future. In the context of this turbulence, protein appears as a stable, solid presence for building and maintaining strength. Drink a smoothie, add exercise, and the benefits are yours to reap.
Protein supplementation – or maxxing – affords the impression of bodily sovereignty and control in a food system and world where any sense of order is hard to come by.
Protein’s long-standing association with health, strength and vitality help make it appear separate from and immune to these wider social anxieties. But in fact, its reputation is often implicated in stoking them, as the example of Donald Trump’s new guidelines attests.
While some might find it frustrating to hear that optimal protein consumption is neither the question nor the answer, we find this a liberating insight. Because once we let go of the obsession with personal protein intake – grams per kilo, per serving, per day and so on – we can start to reckon with bigger questions about why we’re being peddled protein in the first place, and how our relationship to food and eating might evolve along less rigid, more pleasurable trajectories.