If someone were to burgle my flat, they’d find little worth taking. Frankly, if they want my 11-year-old MacBook or my TV that only works at a certain angle, they’d be doing me a favour.
But if they made it to my bathroom, my breath would quicken. You see, I’ve got a stash in there worth a fortune.
Before you ask, I don’t hide my cash behind the toilet. No, inside the cabinet are the 11 supplements I take every morning, the two each evening – and a shelf dedicated to occasional wellness treats and remedies. I now realise these might be some of the priciest items I own.
A survey this week found that Brits, spurred on by social media, are spending upwards of £200 a month on ‘miracle cures’ advertised online.
Gen Z – my generation – are the most gullible, with 74 per cent admitting to being persuaded by ‘game-changing’ supplements pushed on them by the algorithm. I scoffed. Financially illiterate fools!
But as I read the list of Gen Z’s favoured supplements – vitamin tablets, anti-fatigue remedies, immunity boosters – I felt a faint prickle of unease.
I started adding up my monthly spend on pills and potions. The result? £151, or £1,812 a year. I knew I was relatively frivolous, but I’ve never been so embarrassed.
How is that even possible? Well, it all started with the magnesium. As a child, my mum packed me full of multivitamin gummy bears, echinacea in the winter and vitamin C for colds. So I was predisposed to setting a great deal of store by the power of a Boots pill bottle.
After adding up her monthly spend on pills and potions, Olivia Dean found she forks out about £1,812 a year
A survey this week found that Brits, spurred on by social media, are spending upwards of £200 a month on ‘miracle cures’ advertised online
By 22, I was working long hours in my first grown-up job but unwilling to give up mid-week socialising.
My phone must have been listening to my yawns because soon my scrolling was littered with ads for magnesium glycinate. Take two tablets before bed, and you’ll spring out of bed fresh as a daisy. I was sold.
And the first night, they did work. Or had I just taken them on the only night I didn’t fall into bed exhausted for a quick six-hours sleep after an evening at the pub?
For a tenner a bottle, I wasn’t really bothered either way. Plus, most of us are lacking magnesium anyway, or so the label told me.
It snowballed from there. Cod liver oil for brain function? Add to basket. Turmeric for my aching joints? Anything that’ll help. Nootropics? I’ve no idea what’s in them (various minerals and adaptogens, it turns out), but apparently they help me concentrate.
Instagram is very clever, you see. Once you engage with one advert, you’re bombarded with others. I’m not a total moron – I don’t listen to vocally-fried influencers deadpanning about how cayenne pepper saved their lives – but the drip, drip effect sees me eventually Googling if their recommendations could benefit me, too.
Now it takes me a good five minutes to swallow my personal pharmacy every morning. I forgot to pack my Vitamin C on holiday a few weeks ago and found myself not-inconsiderably distressed. During a ‘Mr and Mrs’ game at a party, one of the questions was, ‘What does Liv spend most of her money on?’ ‘Bloody vitamins,’ shouted a friend.
But I’m far from alone: wellness is the new alcohol. We’ve all read stories about the decline in the number of young people drinking. But why do people drink? For fun and relaxation, yes, but also to silence worries, even if they know it’s not solving anything.
All these justifications apply to blindly buying supplements online. Do I really think sucking on collagen gel sachets (on which I spend £60 a month) is going to stop me getting wrinkles? No, but the spurious science makes me feel like I’m taking small steps to safeguard my health.
We’re a culture obsessed by quick fixes. Rather than taking time to get a good night’s sleep, we’d rather buy Ashwagandha tablets (£10 a month) that promise to relax us.
But while I know that, objectively, these pills and potions may not be doing much good, I tell myself they can’t be doing much bad. But perhaps my attitude is a little too blase.
‘Many supplements being plugged online can be misleading or oversold,’ warns specialist dietitian Nichola Ludlam-Raine, author of How Not To Eat Ultra-Processed. ‘Ultimately, a food-first approach is the way to go.’
Realising how much I spend was a rude awakening. My shelves will get a severe cull. If anyone knows of a pill that helps you make better financial decisions, let me know.
