I’ve stared at more supplement labels than I care to admit.
The whole visual system behind these panels—the Supplement Facts label, specifically—started making sense to me only after I interviewed a regulatory designer who worked on packaging for a mid-sized vitamin company in Oregon. She explained that the FDA’s formatting requirements, which date back to the 1994 Dietary Supplement Health and Education Act, aren’t just bureaucratic nonsense. They’re a visual language, one that’s supposed to help consumers parse what’s inside those bottles without needing a biochemistry degree. The typeface has to be Helvetica or Arial, at least 6-point minimum for most text, 8-point for key headings. The percent Daily Value column sits on the right, always, because that’s where your eye naturally drifts when scanning left-to-right. The horizontal rules separating nutrients aren’t decorative—they’re cognitive breaks, letting your brain rest before processing the next cluster of information. Honestly, it’s more thoughtful than I expected.
But here’s the thing: these standards weren’t designed in a vacuum. They evolved from decades of consumer confusion and, frankly, some pretty sketchy labeling practices in the supplement industry during the 1980s and early 90s.
Thebolded “Supplement Facts” header at the top, for instance, had to be distinct from the old “Nutrition Facts” panel you see on food. Why? Because supplements aren’t food, and the FDA wanted zero ambiguity about what you’re consuming. The serving size appears directly below that header—critical, because a bottle might contain 60 capsules, but the label data reflects just two capsules per serving. Miss that detail, and you might think you’re getting 500% of your daily vitamin C when you’re actually getting 1000%. The visual hierarchy guides your attention: big bold header, then serving info, then the ruled table of nutrients. It’s deliberate, almost ruthlessly so, though I’ve seen brands try to game the system by using the smallest legally allowed fonts or cramming the label onto a tiny back panel where you need a magnifying glass.
Wait—maybe the most underappreciated part is the asterisk system.
Those little stars next to certain nutrients link to footnotes explaining that “Daily Value not established” or providing context about what percent DV actually means. The FDA mandates specific footnote language, word-for-word, for consistency across brands. You’ll see the same sentence—”Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet”—on nearly every label, even though supplements aren’t calorie-based. It’s borrowed phrasing from food labels, which creates this weird cognitive bridge: your brain recognizes the format from cereal boxes and uses that familiarity to decode the supplement panel faster. I used to think it was lazy copy-pasting, but turns out it’s intentional design continuity. The visual standards also dictate spacing: at least one-sixteenth of an inch between the rule lines, specific indentation for sub-ingredients (like when a proprietary blend lists individual botanicals underneath). These micro-decisions add up to readability, especially for older consumers or anyone with vision impairments.
Anyway, compliance is a whole other mess.
Brands that deviate from these visual standards—using creative fonts, rearranging the layout, omitting required elements—risk warning letters from the FDA, product seizures, or worse. I’ve heard stories of startups that launched beautiful, minimalist labels only to recieve cease-and-desist notices because they moved the percent DV column to the left or used a sans-serif that wasn’t on the approved list. The standards are rigid, but they’re also protective. Without them, you’d have a visual free-for-all where every brand invents its own system, and consumers would need a decoder ring to compare products. The uniformity might look boring, even corporate, but it’s functional. It privileges clarity over creativity, which makes sense when you’re talking about substances people ingest daily for health reasons.
The color contrast requirements are underrated too. Black text on white background, or sufficiently high-contrast alternatives, ensures the label is readable under grocery store fluorighting or dim bathroom cabinets. The FDA’s guidelines reference WCAG accessibility standards, though they don’t explicitly mandate them—yet. Some forward-thinking brands are already designing labels that exceed minimum contrast ratios, anticipating stricter rules. The visual communication here isn’t just about what information appears, but how easily your eye can extract it under real-world conditions. And yeah, there’s definitely an equity angle: low-income shoppers, non-native English readers, people with cognitive disabilities—they all benefit when labels follow predictable, high-contrast formats rather than treating design as a branding flex.
I guess what surprises me most is how invisible good label design is. You only notice it when it’s bad—when you’re squinting at grey text on a silver label, or when the serving size is buried mid-panel. When the visual standards work, the label becomes transparent, just a conduit for information. That’s the goal, I think, even if it makes for dull Instagram posts.
