your favorite fat people are shrinking before your eyes

we all know it's happening, so why is it so hard to talk about?

Rarely do I sit down to write something knowing with certainty that I have no conclusion to reach, or hard stance I feel comfortable asserting. I’ve been writing about fatness and body image and plus size fashion and everything contained therein for almost 15 years now, and have shared tens of thousands of words of strong opinions, hot takes, thoughtful observations and pointed criticisms. And now, at a time when the narrative around weight loss has gotten so spectacularly deranged and confusing — a time when it feels like I should have the strongest held opinions of my life, and a writing career’s worth of skill to spell it all out — all I can confidently say is: I have no fucking idea.

Typically when my thoughts get so muddied that I can’t find the words, I try to start with the facts. In this case, the facts only lead to contradictions, which only lead to the type of analysis and discourse I find really exhausting. For example, it feels factual to say that GLP-1 medications like Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro have created a seismic shift in the conversation around weight loss, and the biological and medical evidence needed to successfully produce a drug like this challenges long-held stigma around fatness. Then again, how hard are we really challenging the stigma around fatness via widespread acceptance of a drug that works to eradicate fatness as a state of being? And, is the drug really changing the conversation around weight loss, or simply exposing the dark undercurrents of the conversation we’ve been having all along, the one where we tell ourselves that health is the ultimate, righteous goal to be pursuing, and if that means weight loss, at whatever cost, so be it?

And if the facts are so wobbly — if the structural integrity of the truth only stays upright thanks to the load-bearing of what we want to be true — then what I’m about to write next is undoubtedly shakier ground. Because here’s a fact: Your favorite fat influencers and celebrities are losing weight, shrinking and slimming and collar boning before your very eyes. Not all of them are on GLP-1s, of course, but anyone intentionally losing weight in the GLP-1 era can’t escape it’s influence, really; the conceit of the drug has reinvigorated the diet industry in a way we’ve probably never seen before, making it more socially acceptable than it’s been in a handful of recent years to openly speak about exercise, restriction, extreme weight loss techniques, and more. And, during the time when the more aggressive, obvious messaging around dieting and weight loss felt in poor taste, many formerly fat influencers built platforms by speaking loudly and often on body positivity and fat acceptance. In this new era, just as many aren’t saying a word about the drastic changes in their size and appearance, and occasionally balk at the idea that anyone would dare to ask.

Yes, those are the facts, inarguable and with quite literally dozens of examples. But what are you — the fat followers, fans, consumers, observers — supposed to do with that? And why does it feel so uncomfortable, frustrating, or even angering to witness, given that a stranger’s personal choice to lose weight, objectively, has absolutely nothing to do with you?

It’s a complicated conversation to have with yourself, let alone on a social media platform. Frankly, none of this has ever had any business playing out on social media, its unfortunate primary residence. Even at the peak of body positive discourse, a time when we were breathlessly edging thoughts of what true size inclusivity could look like in the mainstream and challenging the status quo, social media created an environment largely devoid of the nuance required to unpack such complex issues. A journalist (me) criticizing a major brand (redacted) for using non-fat models (10-12) to sell plus-size clothing (ugly) could be met with accusations of wanting those models to hate themselves, actually (?) On platforms like Instagram and Twitter, almost every interesting idea about body size was whittled away by its comment section or replies, until what remained was a curled shaving of its former self, usually resulting in one of two takeaways:

FAT? BRAVE AND GOOD, BUT ALSO BAD IF YOU REALLY THINK ABOUT IT!

THIN? GOOD, BUT DON’T SAY IT LIKE THAT!

And it was there in those digital environments that fat influencers found their footing, and where they grew audiences keen to hear them assert how their difference made them resilient. At a certain point in time, marketing trends made it incredibly easy to plug into that conversation and make money, to align yourself with fashion and lifestyle brands eager to use your unique perspective to make their products feel relevant and fresh. Looking back, it feels like satire to observe how often the language of radical body politic popped up fashion spon-con. A brand that absolutely brutalized your psyche in middle school was shouting “all bodies are good bodies” into the void, often using plus-size influencers in their campaigns as mouthpieces to do so. And it wasn’t all about money changing hands: Many fat influencers didn’t even have to be selling anything in particular to grow or mobilize a following — their message was strong and novel enough on its own to keep up the momentum.

Intellectually, there are a million thought-tendrils to unfurl about…*gestures broadly*…whatever that time period was, but at the risk of getting further off track, I’ll say this plainly:

Fat influencers earned their influence by asserting their fatness loudly in a world that dared and rewarded them to do so, and their followers cheered them on from the sidelines, engaging with their content and clicking their links and buying their collabs. Now, some of those very same people have distanced themselves from that assertion, shrinking their bodies while simultaneously dampening the volume on their old messages and turning up the dial on new ones — health, bodily autonomy, personal catharsis, whatever.

If you bought into the premise of that person’s brand when they were fat, you might bristle at the change in messaging, but the reality is there’s not much you can do with those feelings, other than unfollowing. It may not feel right to ask questions, and fairly so — but then again, this bizarre new climate begs nothing but questions: Isn’t a person’s choice to change their body their business? But wait… didn’t they just spend the last 5-10 years making their body a business? If I do start asking well-intentioned questions, does that mean I fancy myself entitled to the details of their lives, even though the details of their lives are what they regularly share? If I see someone I admire losing weight and sharing about how much better they feel, does that mean I should examine that possibility for myself? If they’re not sharing about their weight loss but silently shrinking before my eyes, is it because they’ve evolved beyond the need for approval, or is it because they simply can’t find it within themselves to address it head on? Is their weight loss a symptom of a secret self-hate or guilt, or a manifestation of the choice to finally allow themselves to embrace unapologetic self love? Should I feel guilty for being resentful? Should they feel guilty for selling me on an idea they didn’t actually believe in? What does it say about me if I bought it hook, line and sinker? Are they all taking GLP-1s? Should I? How is it possible that so many fat people built platforms about the strength and power they found in being fat suddenly want to be thin? What does it say about me if I kind of want to be thin, too? And why does all of this feel so impossible to name, let alone process?

Without clear answers, perhaps the moment is calling us to sit in the tension and examine how we got here — how we let ourselves believe in a career and industry that can only exist under late-stage capitalism, and how it could possibly lead us to a better understanding of ourselves. By that definition, the body-positive fat influencer era and the Ozempic thin-and-getting-thinner influencer era are actually funhouse mirror images of themselves, each one reflecting the other, only distorted and in reverse. So much of this conversation feels like it should be about choice — the choice to be thin or fat, the choice to follow or unfollow, the choice to confirm or deny — and that’s because when we focus only on individual choices, it’s easier to identify who to blame when things start to feel really problematic and confusing. The reality is, until we start thinking outside of the silo of our individual choices — why they’re right or wrong, how they make us good or bad — we’ll never truly transcend the implications of what it means to exist in any kind of body, or successfully uncouple the premise of having a body with having value. I, personally, struggle with these questions and conflicts all the time, particularly as I age and deal with both unexpected health issues and the paradox of both not giving single, solitary fuck about how I am perceived and being more aware of my physical self than ever before.

I can’t sort it all out now, but what I will say is this: Instead of limp excuses or sheepish avoidance or denial or accusations, it feels worth naming how fucked up all of this feels. After all, it’s fat hell and we’re just living in it, right?