The new pharmacy is a refrigerator. Not the kind that hums in a clinic, stocked by pharmacists. This one sits in a luxury apartment in Manhattan or a founder’s kitchen in Silicon Valley. Inside are syringes and small glass vials with names like BPC-157, TB-500, and CJC-1295.
These are short chains of amino acids known as peptides. They arrive as powders labeled “for research use only,” are mixed at home with sterile water, and injected for better recovery, smoother skin, sharper focus, or faster healing. There is little scientific evidence that these vials contain what they claim or that any of it works.
Hold that image next to another, still within living memory of the Covid vaccination drive: a syringe containing messenger RNA. That syringe held genetic instructions cells make and destroy every day, used to show the immune system what a virus looks like. That injection went through large trials, regulatory review, and global scrutiny. It saved millions of lives.
Every cell in the body makes both RNA and peptides. But what emerges here is not just a story about molecules, but about trust. Culturally, these two shots have traded places. The mRNA vaccine has become a symbol of coercion and suspicion. The peptide injection is increasingly framed as a demonstration of autonomy and wellness. The vaccine is derided as experimental despite mountains of data. The peptide shot is justified by anecdotes, screenshots, and the feeling that “I tried it and felt better.”
I first encountered this subculture through Bloomberg’s Odd Lots podcast, but it is hard to miss peptides in the news these days. In some Silicon Valley startups, “Peptide Fridays” are pitched as an employee perk. There are peptide raves with cyberpunk dress codes. Users share chemical suppliers in Telegram groups and compare “stacks” the way others compare workout plans. A dealer is often just a contact on WhatsApp who claims to know which Chinese factory to trust for their peptides. Certificates of analysis circulate as screenshots, even though the market is largely unregulated.
Why are people injecting dubious biological compounds into their bodies?
Partly, the taboo against needles has faded. GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic have normalized the idea of routine self-injection. But the comparison flatters the imitators. Those drugs went through rigorous safety and efficacy studies before reaching any pharmacy.
The deeper shift is cultural. The professional elite in Silicon Valley and Manhattan no longer view diseases as biological conditions, but as friction to be hacked. Hunger has become “food noise.” Fatigue is “burnout.” Sleep is “recovery.” Every bodily sensation gets reframed as a bottleneck to be cleared.
Users stack multiple peptides together, borrowing a practice from bodybuilding, despite having no data on how these compounds interact. When someone feels better, it is proof. When someone feels worse, it is blamed on a bad batch or poor protocol. Every outcome gets absorbed into the story. This is crowd-sourced pharmacology.
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Folks in these subcultures are no slouches. They are people who pride themselves on high risk tolerance. They see themselves as sophisticated consumers and early adopters on a frontier. Never mind that the vials they use arrive stamped “for research use only,” a standard of purity far lower than what is required for human medicine.
Some peptides (like obesity blockbuster GLP-1 interventions) can be legitimate medicine, of course. But legitimacy requires the tedious process of controlled trials, dosing studies, and side-effect profiles. It requires reliable manufacturing and storage controls.
The peptides circulating online occupy a different universe. Independent testing has reported purity swinging from under two percent to close to one hundred percent across samples of the same compound.
With supplements, mislabeling wastes money. With injectables, the consequences can be dire. According to a report in the Washington Post, none of the popular injectable compounds are backed by high-quality clinical trials in humans. The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency has banned several, warning of cardiac risks. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration has acknowledged serious adverse events associated with at least one.
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It is hard to miss the irony here. Many of the same voices that warn about mRNA as untested and dangerous strongly vouch for the health benefits of peptides of unknown purity sourced through WhatsApp. The most regulated interventions face scrutiny to the point of paralysis. The least regulated get romanticized as freedom.
It is only natural for a rapidly modernizing India to look to the West for its definition of wellness. But importing this specific brand of recklessness is foolish.
Some experiments are best observed from a distance.
Anirban Mahapatra is a scientist and author, most recently of the popular science book, When The Drugs Don’t Work: The Hidden Pandemic That Could End Medicine. The views expressed are personal.
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