This week, I’m digging into a topic that hits close to home for many of us: the Costco hot dog. You know the $1.50 combo that’s practically a rite of passage in American food culture. It’s cheap, fast, and for many families, nostalgic. But here’s the thing: the picture changes fast once you pull back the curtain on what’s actually in that hot dog.
When you find out the kind of factory-farmed meat and toxic preservatives that are packed into that “harmless” snack, you might find yourself making the same choice I did: walking away for good. This week’s blog post is a deep dive into why I stopped buying Costco hot dogs—and why you might want to consider doing the same. Spoiler alert: it’s not just about what’s on the label but what’s hidden behind it.
This week, we’re excited to spotlight Metabolic Freedom, the new book by our friend and metabolic health expert Ben Azadi—now available for preorder! It’s a practical, science-backed guide to healing your metabolism, boosting energy, and supporting fat loss sustainably. Whether you’re just starting or deep into your wellness journey, this book offers tools that work with your body.
By purchasing today, you receive immediate access to a FREE course on metabolism with exclusive interviews from Gary Brecka, Dr Daniel Pompa, Dr Jason Fung, Megan Ramos, Cynthia Thurlow & more.
Non-Toxic Swap For This Week
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Blog Spotlights
Why I Quit Costco Hot Dogs—And You Might Too
If you’re like me, you probably grew up with hot dogs as a staple of barbecues, ball games, and busy weeknights. For many families, Costco’s $1.50 hot dog and soda combo has become something of a cult favorite. But once I started looking beyond the price tag and convenience, and into what’s actually inside those hot dogs, I realized it was time to walk away for good. And this isn’t just about being a “health nut.” This is about what we’re putting into our bodies—and our kids’ bodies—when we reach for that classic Costco dog.
Lead in Salt: Is Celtic Sea Salt Really Clean?
Salt is one of those staple ingredients most of us barely think about. It sits on the kitchen counter or next to the stove and gets sprinkled onto nearly every meal. For many who follow a health-conscious lifestyle, it’s even used deliberately for…..
What’s Really in That Cute Jewelry?
If your kid has ever asked for those glittery, colorful earrings at the checkout aisle—or you’ve been tempted to grab a cheap pair from a big box store—you’re not alone. Costume jewelry is everywhere. It’s affordable, fun, and usually marketed as harmless fashion. However, a growing body of research shows….
The Hidden Health Risks of Wet Laundry
Most of us have done it—started a laundry load, got distracted, and left it sitting in the washing machine overnight. It feels harmless, just an inconvenience at worst. But here’s what most people don’t realize….
Non-Toxic Tip of the Week
Before you buy any processed meat—hot dogs, deli slices, sausages—check the source.
Look for grass-fed, pasture-raised, and organic labels, and seek out transparent brands about where their meat comes from. Avoid products with a long list of additives, such as sodium nitrite, sodium diacetate, and synthetic preservatives.
Go a step further: research the brand. Visit its website, check for third-party testing, and see if it publishes sourcing details or COAs (Certificates of Analysis).
Brands that care about transparency will have nothing to hide—and that’s the kind of company worth supporting.
Non-Toxic Recipe of the Week
Skip Processed Meat: Make Clean Hot Dogs at Home
The truth is, you don’t have to give up hot dogs—you just need to rethink them. And that starts with taking the power back into your own hands… literally. The best way to make sure your food is free from factory-farmed meat, synthetic preservatives, and hidden toxins? Make it yourself.
This week’s Recipe of the Week is a cleaner, safer, and honestly tastier version of a classic American staple: the humble hot dog. But unlike the pink, pre-packaged mystery meat sold in bulk, this recipe starts with real, whole ingredients you can feel good about feeding your kids—and yourself.
This Week on Social Media, I talked about:
Thanks for being here and for caring enough to dig deeper. Whether you’re questioning the ingredients in a hot dog, the materials in your home, or the toxins hiding in everyday products, every step you take toward awareness matters.
What we put in and around our bodies shapes how we feel, function, and appear. When we choose cleaner, safer options, we avoid harm and create a foundation for strength, clarity, and resilience. And when we do it together, we build a culture where health is the standard, not the exception.
Keep showing up. Keep learning. Keep going. You’re making it count.
*Not what you're looking for? Go to the HTML version for the fancy stuff and content. OR: I need to ask you something.. How tightly are you holding on? Now don’t just answer with your mind. Feel it. Feel the grip inside of you, the tension, the way your heart clings to things, the way your mind grabs at control. I’m asking because this story is about letting go. Not in theory—not as some idea to think about. But as something to do. Right now. Let me explain. There was a man who lived his life as if he were holding on to a rope. The rope was long and frayed, tied to all the things he thought he needed to survive. He gripped it with both hands and held on for dear life. He thought that if he let go, he would fall into an abyss. He didn’t know exactly what was down there, but he knew it would be bad. He’d lose everything—his family, his job, his sense of self. Without the rope, he was certain, he would be nothing. But holding the rope was exhausting. It burned his palms and cut into his fingers. Sometimes it felt like the rope pulled him in different directions at once—one end tied to his need for people to like him, the other to his fear of failure. Sometimes the tension on the rope was unbearable, but still, he held on. Because to let go? That was unthinkable. One day, the man met an old woman sitting on a bench in a park. She had a peaceful glow about her, as if she carried no burdens at all. The man was jealous of her ease. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way. “How are you so calm?” he asked her. The woman looked at him and smiled. “I let go of the rope,” she said simply. The man frowned. “What rope?” “The one you’re holding,” she said. “You can’t see it, but you can feel it, can’t you? That tightness inside of you. That fear that if you let go, you’ll lose everything. But the truth is, the rope isn’t saving you. It’s strangling you.” The man was quiet for a long time. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know how to imagine a life without holding on to the rope. “But if I let go,” he said finally, “won’t I fall?” The woman’s smile deepened. “That’s what you think,” she said. “But the only thing you’ll fall into is freedom.” The man didn’t believe her, of course. How could he? Letting go went against everything he’d been taught. He’d spent his whole life being told that survival depended on holding on—holding on to people, to possessions, to control. Letting go felt like giving up. It felt like failure. So I ask you again: How tightly are you holding on? Can you feel the tension in your chest, the grip in your heart? And more importantly, can you let it go? You don’t have to do it all at once. Just open your hands a little. Just loosen the grip. And when you do, you’ll find that you’re not falling. You’re floating. You’re free. Let go of the rope. Trust me. You don’t need it. The Labyrinth of Light The dome was a living sun. Its translucent panels, segmented like a beetle’s shell, refracted the noonday radiance into a thousand glittering shards, each shard sliding and shimmering along the smooth, white walls below. Everything gleamed with antiseptic brightness, unmarred by the stains of weather, time, or emotion. This was Aurorium, the City of Light. It had no shadows, and, officially, no doubts. Here, under the ever-shining dome, humanity had left behind its fumbling uncertainties, its endless agonies of self-questioning. Gone were the abstract struggles of philosophers and the ceaseless murmur of poets. In their place stood the Ministry of Illumination, with its shining creed: “Meaning is not found—it is assigned. Meaning is not sought—it is delivered.” At the Ministry, every citizen was given their Lumen Pathway by the time they reached their eighteenth year. The system was flawless, or so the Ministry claimed. Each person’s psychometric profile was carefully analyzed; their neural maps scanned and cross-checked against the Collective Consciousness Index. By the end of the process, the result was inevitable: a tailored life-purpose, as precise as the color of one’s irises or the number of lines on one’s fingerprints. And yet, here was Elias. Elias Lorne, Citizen #71184-17, stood at the base of the Ministry’s grand atrium, staring at his Lumen Certificate. The holographic display shimmered faintly in the sterile air, the words inscribed in perfect golden light: "Your purpose is to tend the Reservoirs of Radiance." The Reservoirs. He had heard of them—a vast network of subterranean pools where the city’s refractive crystals were immersed and cleansed, their radiance replenished to ensure the eternal glow of Aurorium. It was honorable work, no doubt, necessary for the city’s unbroken illumination. And yet, as he stood there, holding his future in his hands, something in Elias’s chest remained unmoved. “Is this all there is?” he murmured under his breath. Behind him, a low hum of activity filled the atrium. Young citizens, fresh from their assignments, buzzed with nervous energy. Some smiled, others wept with joy at the clarity of their destinies. A girl beside him held her certificate like a talisman, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I’ll be a Vision Architect!” Another boy punched the air triumphantly, announcing to no one in particular, “Harmonic Technician. Exactly what I wanted!” Elias’s fingers tightened around the edge of the hologram. It wasn’t that he objected to the assignment—not exactly. He understood the necessity of the work. But somewhere deep in the cavernous recess of his mind, a quiet question flickered like a match held too close to the wind: Wasn’t there something more? The next morning, Elias descended into the Reservoirs. “Dangerous?” “Restlessness is a crack,” Mara said. “And cracks are where the darkness seeps in.” Elias hesitated. Then, without meaning to, he said: “Do you ever feel like there’s something missing?” For a long moment, Mara was silent. Then, to Elias’s surprise, she smiled. “Come with me,” she said. That night, Mara led Elias to a hidden passage at the edge of the Reservoirs. The corridor was narrow and dim, its walls streaked with stains of rust. At the end of the tunnel was a door, heavy and ancient, unlike anything Elias had seen in Aurorium. Mara pushed it open. Inside was darkness. Not the faint, shimmering darkness of the city’s shadowless corners, but a true, unbroken blackness that swallowed light whole. For a moment, Elias was overwhelmed by it. The silence was absolute, the void pressing against his skin like a living thing. “What is this place?” he whispered. Mara’s voice was quiet, reverent. “This is where the light comes from.” Elias frowned. “What do you mean? The light comes from the crystals.” Mara shook her head. “The crystals only reflect it. But the source—the true source—is here. In the dark.” She gestured toward the center of the room. There, faintly visible, was a single point of light, no larger than a grain of sand. It pulsed softly, irregularly, like the heartbeat of some distant, unseen creature. “The Ministry doesn’t talk about this,” Mara continued. “They want people to believe the light is infinite, self-sustaining. But it’s not. It comes from here. And it’s fragile.” Elias stared at the tiny light, his chest tightening. “Why are you showing me this?” “Because you’re asking questions,” Mara said simply. “And questions can’t be answered in the light. Not the real ones.” In the weeks that followed, Elias found himself drawn back to the dark room. He spent hours staring at the tiny light, his thoughts unraveling in its faint glow. What was it about the darkness, he wondered, that made the light seem so alive? In the Reservoirs, surrounded by radiance, the light had felt hollow, artificial. But here, cradled in shadow, it was different—fragile, imperfect, and undeniably real. Perhaps, Elias thought, meaning wasn’t something the Ministry could assign after all. Perhaps it wasn’t something that could be given at all. Perhaps meaning had to be carved out of the dark.
