I tried Beyoncé’s brutal pre-Coachella vegan diet—and here's the unfiltered truth

Let me just start by saying: I thought I was ready.

I’ve been a trail runner for years, make my own kombucha, and genuinely enjoy cauliflower in almost any form. So when I heard Beyoncé’s infamous pre-Coachella vegan diet was back in the spotlight, I figured, “How hard can it be?”

Turns out, pretty hard.

Not because I didn’t have the discipline. But because I had no idea how much of myself this kind of cleanse would demand. The food, the mood swings, the social awkwardness—it all added up in ways I wasn’t expecting.

And in the end, the experience taught me something far more profound than how to shed a few pounds or feel lighter in my jeans.

Let’s rewind a little.

Why I even tried it in the first place

Like many of us, I’ve watched Beyoncé perform with a mix of awe and gentle suspicion. The energy, the discipline, the power. After her twins, she trained for months and pulled off one of the most physically demanding performances of her career at Coachella.

As revealed in her Homecoming documentary, she followed a strict plant-based meal plan: no bread, no carbs, no sugar, no dairy, no meat, no fish, no alcohol. Just veggies, fruit, and lots of willpower.

Beyoncé herself described it as brutal. So obviously, I had to try it.

I gave myself 22 days—the same timeframe as the “22 Days Nutrition” plan she followed. And no, I didn’t order the pre-made meals. I went DIY.

The first week felt like identity theft

I’ve done vegan months before. I’ve fasted. I’ve meal-prepped. But nothing prepared me for the sudden emptiness of my kitchen.

No oats. No rice. No tofu if it’s overly processed. Definitely no coffee. That first morning, I stared at my pantry like someone had robbed me.

What was left? Cucumbers, lentils, sweet potatoes, kale, and avocados. Lots of them.

And here’s the thing—when your choices are that limited, you start seeing your own habits with awkward clarity. I didn’t crave sugar at first. I craved habit. My morning toast, my midday granola, my evening wine ritual.

Without them, I felt untethered.

That sense of loss wasn’t physical—it was psychological. A kind of identity crisis. What does it mean when your comforts are stripped away and you're forced to sit with your cravings?

Socializing on this plan is... a minefield

I consider myself socially adaptable. But by day five, I found myself dodging invites.

“Want to grab dinner?”
“Can we do a walk instead?”

It’s hard to explain to people that even the kale Caesar at your favorite restaurant is off-limits. There were awkward pauses. Polite chuckles. One friend called me “intense” in a tone that didn’t quite feel like a compliment.

That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t just a diet. It was a social disruptor.

I learned to come prepared. BYO snacks. A thermos of lemon water. And a sense of humor.

But I also started to appreciate the rare joy of eating in solitude. Of being free from explanations. Of simply listening to what my body was trying to say.

Hunger wasn’t the problem—emptiness was

Physically, I wasn’t starving. The meals were filling enough: roasted cauliflower with tahini, lentil stews, collard green wraps. But emotionally? I felt stripped raw.

There’s a quiet panic that settles in when your go-to coping mechanisms—like food, wine, or caffeine—are unavailable.

As noted by psychologist Dr. Judith Orloff, “Food is often used as a way to anesthetize emotional discomfort. When you take it away, the feelings surface.”

She was right. Without sugar and carbs to dull the edges, everything felt sharper. Memories I hadn’t thought about in years bubbled up. Annoyances hit harder.

But so did joy.

One morning, after a simple breakfast of avocado and sea salt, I felt… euphoric. Not from the food, but from realizing I was still standing. Still sane.

Turns out, being present is a full-body experience—and not always a pleasant one.

By week two, my energy turned a corner

I’d been warned about the dreaded “detox slump.” And I hit it hard around day six. Headaches, mood swings, fatigue. I felt like I was moving through molasses.

But by day ten? A switch flipped.

I woke up with clarity. Not just mental, but physical. My joints felt looser. My digestion, smooth. I wasn’t bouncing off walls, but I didn’t need coffee to function.

That surprised me the most.

As functional medicine expert Dr. Mark Hyman has said, “Food isn’t just calories—it’s information. It tells your body how to function.”

On this plan, my body got the memo. And it replied with: “Thanks, finally.”

What Beyoncé didn’t mention

She talked about the discipline, the sacrifice, the payoff. What she didn’t emphasize is the emotional recalibration that happens when you overhaul your relationship with food.

You start to see how deeply embedded food is in your identity.

How you reward yourself. How you self-soothe. How you show love.

This diet forced me to ask: If I can't show myself love with food, how else do I do it?

The answers were both uncomfortable and enlightening.

Sometimes, it was allowing myself to take a nap instead of powering through. Other times, it was saying no to a meeting I didn’t have the energy for.

This wasn’t just a cleanse—it was a confrontation.

What I gained (and lost)

I lost about five pounds. That wasn’t the goal, but it happened. My skin cleared up. My sleep deepened. I had fewer mood swings, and strangely, less anxiety.

But what I gained?

A deeper understanding of what drives my eating habits. A reminder of how resilient my body is when I give it real fuel. And a renewed respect for boundaries—both nutritional and emotional.

I won’t stay on this diet forever. It’s not sustainable long-term unless you're Beyoncé with a personal chef. But I’ve kept parts of it—like cutting down on processed snacks, eating whole foods, and giving my body more water than it wants and less caffeine than it thinks it needs.

The verdict: Would I do it again?

Yes. But not for a performance, a bikini, or even glowing skin.

I’d do it again when I feel disconnected from myself. When I need a reset that goes deeper than my plate.

Because sometimes, you don’t just need to cleanse your body. You need to cleanse the noise.

This diet gave me that.

And while it may have been brutal, it was also one of the most unexpectedly healing experiences I’ve had in a while.

If you’re curious—truly curious—about what’s beneath your habits, this diet won’t just reveal it. It’ll slap it on the table and dare you to deal with it.

And honestly? That kind of truth might be the most nourishing thing of all.