“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
These were the famous words of Kate Moss, one of the most celebrated models of the ‘90s. Known for her “waifish figure,” according to Calvin Klein, and rebellious attitude, she was the face of large campaigns such as Burberry and Chanel, cementing her supermodel status and iconic legacy.
I remember watching these models walk on the big TV screen, cheering from the comfort of my own living room. They seemed so glamorous and chic, yet unattainable, like they could only be admired from afar. I didn’t know anything about these people—their aspirations, personality, or dreams—I only viewed them as airbrushed perfection. What I didn’t know was that several of the models strutting on stage were suffering from substance abuse and eating disorders.
In addition to her fame, Moss was also known for her partying lifestyle and helped popularize the term “heroin chic,” an archetype characterized by pale skin, dark undereyes, sunken cheeks, and extreme thinness—a look often achieved through heavy drug use and unhealthy eating habits. The pressure to stay skinny and maintain this beauty standard is rampant in the fashion industry, where substance use was normalized by supermodels like Naomi Campbell, who later revealed her cocaine addiction almost killed her. These people willingly sacrificed their daily comfort in order to be praised by society, and they were. It subconsciously made me believe I should do the same, so I could receive that validation too. After all, these models were the people we idolized; I should strive to embody them as well.
It was shocking to realize that the people I constantly revered and compared myself to were nothing more than a facade. I would see the runways, red carpets, and premieres and assume their lives were encased in a perfect, untouchable bubble. I was wrong. If you have to take drugs to reach a specific body type, then that body type isn’t meant to be attained.
Since that era, I had hoped that society would progress from its one dimensional view of attractiveness and accept the beauty in diversity. With the rise of the body positivity movement in the late 2010s came the promotion of self-love and acceptance of people of all shapes, sizes, and races who could challenge the ever-changing beauty standard. In the 1950s, society idolized a curvier figure inspired by actress Marilyn Monroe. In the 2010s, the Kim Kardashian “hourglass” body type gained traction, emphasizing a flat stomach with larger hips. The pattern is clear; the current beauty standard is continuously recycled while we try to be malleable and force ourselves to fit into the boxes society has subjugated upon us.
Now, as I scroll through TikTok and Instagram, I cannot escape the influx of “skinnytok” videos promoting undernourished exercising and eating, non-bloating, sugar-free, gut-healthy meals all under the guise of “bettering yourself.” Not only does this content perpetuate toxic diet culture, but several of these videos spread misinformation and act as if there are quick fixes to normal bodily functions such as bloating. Under the false pretense of improving health, these videos prioritize aesthetics and overemphasize the importance of appearance. The overall consensus pushes the idea that being skinny is the only ambition we should strive for—stripping us of our goals, dreams, and any other identity besides the look of our physique. Along with the Y2K fashion revival and an increase in the usage of weight loss drugs like Ozempic—originally manufactured to treat diabetes— “heroin chic” seems to be making a comeback.
I can see the glorification of skinniness reflected in fashion shows as well. The return of skinniness comes alongside the reappearance of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show—an extravaganza of dramatic wings, alluring outfits, and bombshell makeup. While we can acknowledge how iconic these performances were in pop culture, we must also note how several models reportedly wouldn’t eat for days, while others followed liquid-only diets in preparation.
Is beauty supposed to be this hard? Fashion should not be an exclusive club where only people with a specific ticket can get in. Our bodies should not be judged in the context of fashion when what is deemed flattering is a cultural construct—one shaped by the intersection of media, cultural norms, and politics.
Right now, it feels as if our bodies are comparable to fashion trends—constantly evolving. This should not be the case. When I was younger, I thought being skinny automatically equaled being more fashionable. Instead of using my clothing as an accessory, I would view my body as the accessory, simultaneously destroying my self-expression and self-esteem. In fact, the least confident and fashionable I felt was when I repeatedly looked in the mirror and criticized myself.
But we are not objects on a rack whose purpose of existence is to be scrutinized and picked apart.
Our bodies are not trends, accessories, or objects, but vehicles for experiencing life to the fullest, and they should be nourished and treated as such.
