Go Ahead, Call Me A Bitch

I’m not going to name the food company I’m talking about. Honestly, there are probably a few giant chains that could fit this story anyway, so that works for me.

And frankly, I have zero interest in getting dragged into a lawsuit over an opinion piece.

Here’s what happened.

Last week, I was headed to the store already in a bad mood. I had even posted about it earlier that day, so I’m fully aware my reaction may have been sharper because of that. Still, I sat with it for an entire week before deciding to write this, because I wanted to make sure this wasn’t just emotion talking.

On my way, I noticed a huge crowd outside a fast-food restaurant. Balloons. Music. Employees outside smiling and waving people in. A whole celebration.

Curious, I walked closer to see what was going on.

It was a fundraising event for sick kids.

And I just stood there staring.

Because here’s the part I can’t stop thinking about: research has repeatedly linked heavily processed fast food diets to obesity, heart disease, type 2 diabetes, and increased cancer risk. Ultra-processed foods are designed for shelf life and profit margins, not health. Yet somehow the same corporations selling this stuff get to turn around and position themselves as champions for children’s health.

That contradiction hit me hard.

But what really made me angry wasn’t even the fundraising itself.

It was the fact that this billion-dollar corporation was asking ordinary people,  many already struggling financially,  to donate extra money while buying the very products that contribute to poor health outcomes in the first place.

Feed people food linked to chronic illness.

Then host a feel-good campaign about helping sick children.

Then ask customers to pay even more money to fix the problem.

That’s the part that felt deeply wrong to me.

I stood there wondering: am I the only person seeing this?

Am I the only one thinking, this feels completely backwards?

I came home still frustrated and started venting to my family. The more I talked, the more I realized this feeling goes way beyond one fast-food chain.

We’ve become surrounded by marketing disguised as caring.

Open your phone for five minutes and you’ll be bombarded with influencers telling you that if you drink lemon water with pink salt every morning, buy their supplements, follow their “life-changing” course, or use their discount code, your life will magically improve.

And yes, I’ve fallen for some of it too.

For the record: I tried the pink salt and lemon thing. I did not lose 20 pounds. I did irritate the enamel on my teeth.

But influencers are only one part of a much bigger machine.

A lot of modern advertising no longer looks like advertising. It looks personal. It looks authentic. Influencers sit in their kitchens, cry on camera, talk about mental health, relationships, parenting, trauma, wellness and it creates the feeling that you know them and can trust them.

That’s exactly why it works.

The influencer economy is built on trust, your false relationships with them, and persuasion. And while some creators genuinely want to help people, many are also selling products, programs, lifestyles, and narratives that primarily benefit them financially.

So I started asking myself one simple question every time someone tried to sell me something:

Who benefits most from this?

Is it me?

Or is it the corporation, influencer, sponsor, affiliate partner, or brand cashing the cheque?

Most of the time, the answer becomes pretty obvious once you stop and think about it.

And before anyone says, “But the fundraiser helps sick kids,” let me be clear: I absolutely support helping sick children, cancer patients, addiction recovery, mental health programs, and families in crisis. Those causes matter deeply.

What I don’t support is corporations using charity as a shield for public image while shifting responsibility onto consumers. Because let’s be honest: these companies already have the money.

They could donate enormous amounts themselves without asking minimum-wage families at the cash register to round up their order total. But public fundraising campaigns create something even more valuable than donations:

Good PR.

It allows companies to wrap themselves in compassion while avoiding harder conversations about the health impacts of the products they sell, the ingredients they use, and the systems they profit from.

The same thing applies online.

The more I started asking “who benefits?” the more patterns I noticed. Influencers recommending products benefited. Companies benefited. Marketing agencies benefited.

The actual audience? Sometimes we got a tiny benefit, but often we just got sold another promise.

And look, I’m not pretending I’m above any of this. I’ve bought the products. Clicked the links. Believed the stories. Wanted the quick fix. Wanted to trust people. Most of us do.

Nobody wants to feel left behind. Nobody wants to miss the answer everyone else seems to have found.

But I’m done blindly buying into things just because they’re packaged with emotional storytelling and a smiling face. Even charitable causes deserve critical thinking.

We’ve all seen stories where fundraising campaigns, organizations, or viral donation drives collected huge amounts of money while the actual victims or families received very little support. Sometimes the money disappears into administration, branding, middlemen, or outright scams.

That doesn’t mean people should stop caring, it means people should start asking questions.

So maybe this is the one thing I want people to carry away from this rant:

Who benefits?

Ask it when someone asks for a donation.

Ask it when an influencer pushes a product.

Ask it when a corporation suddenly becomes performatively compassionate for one day a year.

Ask it when someone tells you they have the miracle answer to your health, happiness, weight, finances, or self-worth.

Because caring matters. Helping people matters. But keeping people honest matters too.