It was just one last task before the wedding ceremony. “I currently am in the bathroom in my wedding dress I asked everyone for just a few mins alone so that I could message you this.” Who warranted such an urgent, intimate message? An old flame? A long-lost friend?
No, the recipient was Liv Schmidt, a 23-year-old influencer known for her stark, often brutal, guidance on weight loss. The bride, who started her “journey” at 134 pounds with a modest goal of losing five, had instead dropped to a dramatic 110 pounds. “I’m crying writing this because I have never felt so healthy and confident. THANK YOU!!!” she wrote, attaching stark before-and-after photos. The “after” revealed visible bones beneath the skin of a woman previously a size 2 or 4. This transformation, she insisted, was thanks to Schmidt. “You feel like a best friend and sister to me,” the bride concluded in the message Schmidt later shared with her legions of followers.
Schmidt reigns over “SkinnyTok,” a corner of the internet where the pursuit of extreme thinness is not just accepted, but celebrated. Her viral “what I eat in a day to stay skinny” videos are blunt: she stays thin by eating very little. Tactics include drinking mint tea before any food to test for true hunger or taking just three bites of a dessert before discarding it. To some, this honesty is refreshing. To others, it’s a dangerous promotion of disordered eating.
The backlash has been swift and vocal. Influencers have condemned her, and major publications have published scathing critiques. Social media platforms have taken action; Meta restricted her ability to sell lucrative subscriptions ($20/month for her “Skinni Société” group chat), and TikTok globally banned the #SkinnyTok hashtag, citing its link to unhealthy weight loss.
Paradoxically, these efforts to curb her influence seem to have amplified it, particularly among certain political factions. Schmidt has been embraced by the right, framed as a victim of “cancel culture” for simply being “honest.” Right-wing outlets like Evie Magazine, which also features “tradwife” influencers promoting traditional femininity, have profiled Schmidt favorably, casting her as “Banned for Being Honest?” This narrative taps into a broader strategy by the conservative space to leverage cultural issues and “canceled” figures as a gateway to more extreme viewpoints online, using relatable, aspirational content as an algorithmic pipeline.
Drawn into the Algorithm’s Grip
Many, including myself, didn’t actively seek out SkinnyTok. It finds you. Liking an Instagram reel about “Easy High Protein, Low Calorie Breakfast” was enough to open the floodgates. Within hours, my feed was saturated with conventionally attractive, thin women delivering a singular, harsh message: eat less, be smaller. Mantras like “You’re not a dog, don’t treat yourself with food” and the infamous “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” became pervasive, seeping into my subconscious.
Conversations with friends revealed I wasn’t alone. The “three-bite rule” was instantly recognizable. Many acknowledged the unhealthiness of the advice but felt compelled by the promise that “everything I want is on the other side of being skinny.” Some defended the content: “It helps me to not eat ‘the extra thing’ I don’t need. Don’t like it? Don’t follow it.” Others saw it as “internalized misogynistic brainwash!” Yet, the allure persisted.
This raises a critical question: What happened to the body positivity movement that seemed so dominant just a few years ago?
The Shifting Sands of Body Standards
The 2010s saw body positivity rise, pushing back against unrealistic beauty standards and fat shaming prevalent in earlier eras, like the “thinspiration” sites of the 2000s or tabloid scrutiny of celebrity weight. The movement argued the problem wasn’t women’s bodies, but how they felt about them, leading to increased visibility for plus-size models and challenging the notion that thinner is inherently better.
However, many felt the movement faltered. Critics argued it felt like “lying,” ignoring the perceived health risks of being overweight and deeply ingrained societal fat phobia. It was accused of being co-opted by brands for performative inclusivity or diluting its focus by trying to include everyone, losing sight of its original advocacy for marginalized bodies. Furthermore, body positive messaging was often criticized as individualistic (“just love yourself!”) without addressing systemic anti-fat bias or the toxic culture surrounding women’s bodies. Psychology experts note that this focus on individual confidence fails to tackle the root causes of societal shaming.
Then came the seismic shift: the widespread availability and popularity of GLP-1 weight-loss drugs like Ozempic. These medications, initially for medical conditions, became widely used for cosmetic weight loss, quickly changing physiques, including those of celebrities and influencers who previously championed body acceptance. This trend, coupled with renewed dieting conversations and shrinking bodies in the public eye, dramatically undermined the body positivity message. It sent a clear signal: not only was thinness desirable and achievable (if you had a prescription and money), but perhaps you didn’t have to love the body you were in after all.
For many, particularly those without access to these expensive medications, the question became: how to achieve thinness when “skinny was back”? SkinnyTok emerged as a readily accessible, non-prescription answer.
More Than Just Restriction: The Political and Social Undertones
SkinnyTok isn’t solely about calorie restriction. It weaves thinness into narratives of self-control, class, and desirability. As Schmidt’s viral caption, “This is the treatment Skinni gets you,” implying thinness attracts male attention and elevates social status, illustrates, being “small” becomes tied to being “the right kind of woman.”
While SkinnyTok influencers often steer clear of overt political discussion, their emphasis on policing female behavior and size is inherently political. The algorithmic path from SkinnyTok often leads to “tradwife” content, promoting traditional domestic roles and “divine femininity,” and can extend further into anti-vax or alt-right communities. Experts see this as a deliberate strategy: using seemingly apolitical, aspirational content to draw viewers into more extreme viewpoints.
The political divide surrounding figures like Schmidt is stark. As the left critiques her content, the right champions her as a symbol against censorship and perceived progressive overreach. Some argue the left’s perceived exclusivity makes figures like Schmidt feel more welcome in conservative spaces, reinforcing this algorithmic pipeline.
Inside the Skinni Sphere
Amanda Dobler, another prominent SkinnyTok influencer, echoes some of Schmidt’s bluntness (“You are killing yourself with the shit you eat. It’s disgusting. And you should feel shameful.”) but offers a slightly different perspective. With a background as a fat-loss and mindset coach, she incorporates nutrition and exercise, representing a spectrum within SkinnyTok. She denies her content is political, focusing on discipline and speaking from her own experience.
However, the resonance of SkinnyTok’s harshness highlights a deeper truth: many women already engage in intense self-criticism about their bodies. SkinnyTok’s ruthless tone, though potentially damaging, feels authentic to a culture that often treats thinner people better, impacting dating prospects and even career opportunities.
A Return to Thinness in Fashion
This cultural shift is starkly visible in industries like fashion, which had previously made gestures towards body inclusivity. Reports from major fashion weeks and industry experts reveal a rapid reversal, particularly since 2023. What little progress was made has stalled, with less than 1% of models on major runways now being plus-size, and over 94% being a U.S. size 0-4. The “Ozempic boom” is often cited as a key driver. Plus-size models report a dramatic decline in work, pressure to lose weight, and a narrowing definition of “plus-size” to only “mid-size” figures. Overt fatphobia is also on the rise.
While the fashion industry may be reverting to thin ideals, critics argue that the core of body positivity wasn’t about fleeting trends or industry performativity, but about the psychological health of individuals.
Finding a Path Forward
The current landscape presents a confusing dichotomy: a cultural push towards thinness fueled by medication and online movements like SkinnyTok, contrasting with the message of self-acceptance. While the body positivity movement may have faced criticism and setbacks, its foundational principle—that your worth isn’t defined by your size—remains vital.
Perhaps a middle ground is needed. Concepts like body neutrality, which focuses on what your body can do rather than how it looks, offer an alternative that may be more attainable than constant pressure to feel positively about one’s appearance. Prioritizing function, health, and self-kindness over aesthetics provides a path to a healthier relationship with oneself.
Even small changes derived from critical engagement with SkinnyTok content, like simply stopping eating when full (a practice I adopted and subsequently lost weight doing), highlight the complexities. However, the underlying message that women should “shrink themselves” is ultimately damaging. Seeing young girls, like my nieces, embrace their bodies for their strength and capability, aspiring to be bigger, faster, and stronger rather than smaller, underscores the harmful nature of a culture obsessed with thinness. It’s a powerful reminder that true confidence comes from within, not from conforming to an ever-shifting, and potentially dangerous, ideal of size.
