Why I’m Writing This
I was recently sent a Natural News article warning that “super shedders” could soon be walking among us after receiving new mRNA flu shots. The article describes vaccinated people as potential “broadcast towers” for toxic protein fragments and suggests that simply being around them could expose others to dangerous spike proteins. It goes so far as to warn that restaurants, churches, airplanes, and other public places could become exposure zones.
I don’t agree with that message.
For years, I have questioned the claims surrounding vaccines, virology, and the methods used to establish many of the assumptions we are told to accept as fact. But questioning the mainstream narrative does not mean we should automatically accept every frightening claim coming from the alternative-health world either. Fear is still fear, regardless of which side is selling it.
Before we start worrying about “spike shedding” or treating vaccinated people as a threat, I think we should ask a more basic question: How was the alleged spike protein actually identified and proven in the first place? That is what this article examines.
Is the “Spike Protein” Story as Straightforward as We’ve Been Told?
For years, the spike protein has occupied center stage in the COVID narrative. It is described as the distinctive protein on SARS-CoV-2 that allows the virus to interact with human cells, and mRNA injections were designed around instructions said to cause our cells to manufacture a version of that same protein. More recently, an entire discussion has developed around “spike shedding,” persistent spike protein, and ways to supposedly detoxify it. But writer Jamie Andrews, along with physicians and researchers such as Dr. Tom Cowan and Dr. Andrew Kaufman, asks a more fundamental question: How do we actually know that what researchers are detecting is the specific entity they call the spike protein?
In his article The (Spike) Protein Hoax, Andrews focuses on laboratory techniques used to identify and characterize proteins, including the Bradford protein assay and immunogold electron microscopy. The Bradford assay uses a dye whose behavior changes when it interacts with proteins, while immunogold microscopy relies upon antibodies tagged with microscopic gold particles that are presumed to bind to a particular target. Andrews argues that because these methods depend upon chemical reactions, antibodies, laboratory conditions, controls, and interpretation, they should not automatically be equated with directly isolating and observing a uniquely identified protein. His larger criticism is that researchers may be moving from an indirect laboratory signal to a much more specific biological conclusion than the experiment itself warrants.
Dr. Tom Cowan makes a related argument about antibody specificity. He asks how researchers established that an antibody described as a “spike-protein antibody” binds exclusively to the alleged spike protein rather than other proteins. Cowan argues that meaningful controls would include testing other antibodies against the same material and testing the purported spike antibody under conditions involving different mRNA sequences. Without those comparisons, he contends that antibody binding alone cannot establish beyond question what protein has actually been detected. His point is not simply that an assay produced a signal; it is that researchers must demonstrate that the signal uniquely identifies the substance they claim it does.
Dr. Andrew Kaufman raises another issue: what happens to biological samples before researchers photograph them? He cites an Australian SARS-CoV-2 study in which particles associated with cultured cells reportedly did not initially display the characteristic spikes expected of a coronavirus. According to Kaufman, the researchers subsequently treated samples with trypsin—a protease that breaks down proteins—and then reported seeing spike-like projections. Kaufman describes this as “post hoc modification,” arguing that structures appearing after substantial laboratory processing should not automatically be treated as structures that existed in the original biological sample. This fits with Andrews’ broader concern that many images presented as straightforward pictures of biological reality are actually the end products of numerous preparation and interpretation steps.
Taken together, Andrews, Cowan, and Kaufman are challenging a premise that even many critics of the COVID vaccines accept without question. The debate usually begins with What does the spike protein do? Is it toxic? Can vaccinated people shed it? How do we detox from it? These critics are asking us to move one step further back: What experimental evidence established the existence, identity, specificity, and origin of the alleged spike protein in the first place? Their conclusions remain far outside the scientific consensus, but the methodological questions they raise are worth examining on their own terms. Before building an entire theory of disease, vaccine injury, shedding, or detoxification around a particular protein, shouldn’t we first understand precisely how that protein was identified—and what experiments demonstrated that the laboratory signal truly represents what scientists say it does?
Further Reading & Viewing
I also recommend reading Jamie Andrews’ Substack article, The (Spike) Protein Hoax, which explores similar concerns about protein identification and the laboratory methods used to support these claims.
Taken together, these three sources ask an important question: Before we fear “spike shedding,” shouldn’t we first examine how the alleged spike protein was identified in the first place?
