On the day of our OKCupid date, I woke up thinking not about my suitor, but about his fungus. How big would it be? What would it smell like? I waited on a bench at the park. He arrived holding a mason jar covered in saran wrap. I made my best small talk, occasionally grazing his arm and offering a compliment, so he wouldn’t change his mind about the SCOBY. As soon as I could get away, I raced home to examine my prize. It reminded me of a placenta, slippery and grotesque and beautiful.
I never saw the guy again.
Let me explain: a SCOBY (“symbiotic colony of bacteria and yeast”) is the fermentation engine of kombucha, a probiotic tea drink made from tea and sugar. Kombucha purportedly aids digestion, boosts immunity, reduces inflammation, increases energy, alleviates anxiety and depression, and—according to the most ardent believers—cures cancer. As a daily kombucha drinker, I’d decided to save money (and admittedly develop a deeper relationship with my favorite beverage) by brewing it myself.
New to San Francisco, I was already using OKCupid to date and expand my social circle, so I decided to use it to procure a SCOBY. Using a keyword search I found a blond grad student who listed kombucha brewing as one of the “six things he couldn’t live without.” He wasn’t my type, but that was of little concern. When I mentioned my interest in brewing, he offered to bring a SCOBY to our first date.
To start the brewing process I sterilized a large glass jar, brewed black tea with sugar, and fed it to my newly christened treasure: Toby the SCOBY. Each week I moved the prior week’s batch into an airtight jar in the fridge to further ferment. I showed off Toby to anyone who visited my apartment, as slap-happy as a kid at a science fair.
I first tasted kombucha at the health food store where I worked during college. It was effervescent and tangy, reminiscent of champagne; life-affirming. The store stocked just one brand and flavor, GT’s Original. At 60 calories, 4 grams of sugar, and one billion probiotic organisms per bottle, I marveled at how something so delicious could actually be good for me.
Growing up in LA, the only way to have your cake and eat it too was to make the cake gluten-free and vegan and not eat anything else that day. With kombucha, I was changing the part of myself that thought I’d always feel bad for tasting something good.
Each week I started trading in some of my paycheck for kombucha. I drank it when my stomach hurt, or when I needed to de-stress before a test, or when I had a reason to celebrate. It soothed me, similar to how I imagine the effects of Xanax, or catnip, might feel.
Over the years, what began as an occasional treat evolved into a daily need. I started bringing my own to dinner parties. When it was on sale I bought triple. Wherever I was, I had a mental map of where to purchase a bottle and the price difference at each location. If it was a particularly good day—or a particularly bad day—I might let myself have two. I had favorite flavors for different moments: ginger for stomach malaise, lemon for a hot day, cranberry for a cocktail mixer.
And now that I was brewing Kombucha myself, I could enjoy it on a daily basis without forking over $4 a bottle. A few months into my brewing experiment, however, I was at the office mid-PowerPoint presentation when I started feeling queasy (more than the normal nausea induced by PowerPoint). I took an urgent Lyft ride home and spent the rest of the day running between the bed and the bathroom, clutching my stomach and praying to the gods of food poisoning relief.
That night, I texted my mom to tell her I thought my kombucha had made me sick, as I hadn’t consumed anything else questionable in the last 24 hours. The next day she sent me an email with the subject line “kombucha and your health.” According to the FDA and the CDC, home-brewed kombucha can cause lead poisoning, fungal infections, and (in one reported case) even death. My med school brother also texted me.
“When brewing kombucha, it’s easy to not only grow good bacteria, but bad bacteria too.”
“We think you should stop,” he added.
Was this my family’s version of an intervention?
A few days later, after I had recovered, I decided to do my own research into the risks of home-brewing. Apparently, contamination of homebrewed kombucha is more likely because the SCOBY and the resulting liquid aren’t tested for quality; plus, temperature controls and sterilization aren’t managed as closely. As a result, the SCOBY can produce harmful bacteria and aspergillus (a toxin-producing fungus), which can cause illness.
I loved brewing kombucha, but I didn’t want to make myself ill from it. I decided to stop brewing. Then came a truly San Francisco problem: Should I put Toby the SCOBY in the compost bin or the trash? With a sigh I placed Toby in the compost bin, feeling as if I was saying goodbye to someone I liked but had only just met. To comfort myself I went to the corner store and spent $3.99 on kombucha made by professionals.
That was five years ago. Since then, I’ve continued to drink professionally brewed kombucha every day. By my accounting, I have spent $7,580.04 on kombucha in my lifetime. While that probably sounds extravagant to some, to me it seems like a reasonable sum in exchange for the daily moment of solace and enjoyment and well-being kombucha has provided.
A few months ago for a writing class I endeavored to write a humorous, lighthearted piece about my “addiction” to kombucha. In doing research for the piece, I learned that the health benefits of kombucha are scientifically unproven. And then that light-hearted piece turned into this more serious essay.
While studies do show that probiotic foods (such as kombucha) aid digestion and help maintain intestinal health, ascribing these benefits to kombucha is an act of inference. A 2014 academic journal article elaborates: “Most of the benefits were studied in experimental models only and there is a lack of scientific evidence based on human models.”
Until then, I genuinely believed kombucha made me feel better. When I drank it, a sense of calm and ease washed over my body, particularly my mind and stomach. And I’d read research about how the health of your brain stems from the health of your gut, and as such, probiotics (like kombucha) can play a role in improving mental health. Being no stranger to the blues, I viewed kombucha as one way to keep the lows at bay. In the words of Hippocrates: “Let food be thy medicine, and medicine be thy food.”
Upon realizing the dearth of evidence for kombucha’s purported health benefits, I felt betrayed. Kombucha had been part of my daily routine—both for pleasure and for keeping myself well—for eight years. But here’s the thing: Despite my newfound knowledge and the resulting sense of betrayal, my cravings didn’t stop, and so I kept drinking it. And that’s when I began to wonder if I had a problem.
Was I actually addicted to kombucha? Psychology Today describes addiction as “a substance or activity that can be pleasurable but becomes compulsive and interferes with ordinary responsibilities and concerns.” While I didn’t think kombucha interfered with my everyday life, a friend pressed me to be honest. “You used a date to get a SCOBY, missed work because it made you sick, and spent thousands of dollars that you could have invested in other things.”
Well, true. I did sense my dependence on kombucha wasn’t normal, and this caused shame which at times led me to hide my habit. When I started dating my boyfriend, I mustered all my willpower to stop myself from darting into Walgreens or Whole Foods to pick one up. I eventually came out to him and offered him a sip. When he liked it—and didn’t tease me about how much I drank—my heart swelled with relief.
While one part of me thought my kombucha habit wasn’t normal, another part of me resisted giving it up. Wasn’t being addicted to kombucha better than being addicted to martinis or cigarettes or video games? Plus, drinking kombucha was part of my identity; something people knew me for: a coworker once ordered a delivery of kombucha for my birthday, and I’ve hosted parties thematically dedicated to kombucha cocktails. And even though the health benefits of kombucha were unproven, the drink (perhaps by placebo effect) made me feel better. So I wondered: Is an addiction by definition a detriment to health and happiness, or can it be a good thing?
While considering these questions, my boyfriend and I decided to create a monthly budget to increase our savings. “I’m willing to cut any expense but kombucha,” I said. “I’ll give up drinking alcohol, or spend less money on clothes. Anything.”
“For this to work,” my boyfriend said, “I think we need to be willing to at least consider all expenses, no exceptions.”
At first I felt angry. But then I realized he was right. Especially considering the lack of evidence for kombucha’s benefits, did I really need to insist on my daily habit?
Partly due to the budget project, and partly just to see if I could, I decided to stop drinking kombucha every day. First, I stopped stocking the refrigerator with kombucha. As there was no place to buy kombucha within walking distance of work, anytime I wanted a bottle I needed to get in the car, drive someplace, park, and get one. When no longer aided by convenience, each time I thought about kombucha I had to think about how bad I really wanted it.
At first, every day I didn’t have it I wanted it. But then I learned to sit with the wanting. And then I began to like the confidence that came with not feeling dependent on a substance. Once I recognized the meaning I ascribed to the drink—I thought I needed it to feel good, and to indulge without guilt—it was easier to look for other ways to fulfill that need. I realized I could have good days—and great days—without it. I still drink kombucha, but not every day, and not with the same sense of need.
A few weeks ago I had a big presentation at work. I normally manage my public speaking anxiety by drinking a bottle of kombucha beforehand to soothe my nerves. The evening before my presentation, I started walking to the store to get some to bring with me the next day. Mid-walk, I turned around and came home.
The next morning, I stepped up to the podium. I was fine—even great—without it.
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