Latest news with #LivSchmidt
Telegraph
13-07-2025
- Lifestyle
- Telegraph
How an innocent search on social media drew me into the disturbing world of extreme dieting
I did not go looking for Liv Schmidt's videos on Instagram, but they soon found me. Schmidt, a lithe, blonde 23-year-old based in New York, is an influencer who shares weight-loss tips with an audience of hundreds of thousands of followers. The fact that Schmidt's videos appeared in my feed in the first place is testament to how, through the mysterious workings of social media algorithms, viewing benign content related to fitness – as I was doing – or content on weight loss and healthy eating can escalate to something more sinister. On TikTok, as I started viewing fitness videos, the results that began showing up on my 'For You' page (FYP) – a feed that TikTok populates with videos its algorithm thinks you will be interested in – were more concerning still. Almost instantly, it became filled with 'model secrets to stay thin', food diaries that amounted to less than 800 calories per day and, most disturbingly, painfully thin young women showcasing hip bones, collarbones and ribs. Welcome to 'SkinnyTok', where users post extreme weight-loss tips and 'thinspiration' (images of very thin women meant to be aspirational). This type of content isn't new, of course, nor is it limited to TikTok. But on the social media platform – widely considered to be the most popular app among young people, with over 1.5 billion monthly users – these influencers have experienced a particularly meteoric rise in popularity and reach. But it's Schmidt, with her 326,000 Instagram followers, who is the unofficial social media leader. As well as walking daily and eating in a calorie deficit, Schmidt's accounts have shared (and in some cases since removed) controversial dieting advice, such as drinking water or tea to suppress appetite, eating your meals from side plates and implementing something called the 'three bite rule': eating just three bites of something you fancy, then leaving the rest. (In a restaurant, she says she 'tastes everything and finishes nothing'.) It is the kind of weight loss-talk that would be more at home in 2005 than 2025, when the aesthetic ideal was a hangover from the super-thin models of the 1990s. Schmidt's TikTok account, which had amassed more than 670,000 followers, was banned for violating the platform's community guideline in September last year (the hashtag SkinnyTok has also since been blocked, and if a user searches it, they are directed to 'expert resources'). In an interview at the time, she said that 'weight is a touchy topic, but that's what the viewers want'. And despite the ban, her content soon reappeared. It was re-shared by other accounts on TikTok and posted to Instagram and her fledgling YouTube channel, where she has active accounts with 325,000 and 100,000 followers respectively. 'Being skinny is literally a status symbol,' she said, in a now-deleted video that is still doing the rounds online. 'You're living life on hard mode being fat… you're wondering why the bouncer won't let you in? Check your stomach. You're wondering why… this job isn't taking you? Look at yourself.' On Instagram, she captioned a recent photo of her in a bikini with the phrase, 'nothing tastes as good as being this effortless feels' – seemingly a direct reference Kate Moss's now infamous mantra, 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels'. It was there on Instagram, the photo-sharing app owned by Mark Zuckerberg's Meta, that Schmidt's videos appeared in my feed. (Instagram has now banned Schmidt's account from using monetisation tools and it is hidden to users under 18.) This type of content isn't new; as long as there has been social media there have been hidden weight loss and even 'pro-ana' – pro-anorexia – communities hidden in its ecosystem. But they were just that, hidden, on the blogging site Tumblr and in obscure forums and chatrooms. What has changed in the context of GLP-1 weight loss drugs is that thin is back in fashion and, with it comes a new wave of pro-anorexia content. This time, it is hidden in plain sight. Schmidt's intentions may well be nakedly commercial. You can buy her 'New Me' diet tracker for $50 (£37), and her 'skinny essentials', which include resistance bands and fat-free salad dressing, from Amazon. She also runs a members-only group chat, which you can join for a fee, called 'the Skinni Société'. Or perhaps her tough-love rhetoric may be a cynical ploy to farm engagement – as she has said herself, videos that merely mention her name get 'millions' of views as a result. But, judging by the comments, some of her followers take her advice as gospel. And on TikTok, there is no shortage of other creators like her. The app's powerful algorithm can send users down a rabbit hole of content within a niche, meaning videos promoting extreme dieting techniques could be being fed to teenagers. Regulators are taking note – in fact, one French government minister is seeking to ban it once and for all. Clara Chappaz is the minister delegate for artificial intelligence and digital technologies in the government of prime minister François Bayrou. In April, she reported '#SkinnyTok' to France's audiovisual and digital watchdog, and to the EU, over concerns that it is promoting anorexia. 'These videos promoting extreme thinness are revolting and absolutely unacceptable,' she said. 'Digital tools are marvellous in terms of progress and freedom, but badly used they can shatter lives… the social networks cannot escape their responsibility.' The European Commission opened a probe into TikTok's algorithm and how it affects minors last February, under the bloc's content moderation rulebook, the Digital Services Act. As part of it, it began investigating how the platform promotes content relating to eating disorders. Point de Contact, an organisation recently named by regulator Arcom as a 'trusted flagger' of harmful digital content, also confirmed their teams are looking into the matter in coordination with authorities, as reported by Politico. 'The difficulty is to prove that the content is illegal, and that the message is directly targeted at minors,' a Point de Contact spokesperson says. 'But it's certain that TikTok isn't scanning this hashtag fast enough.' Experts are clear that eating disorders have no single cause, but there is a growing body of research that suggests – perhaps unsurprisingly – that exposure to this kind of online content could be a factor in fuelling or exacerbating disordered eating. Researchers have studied the impact it can have on young women's body image and concluded that it can cause 'psychological harm even when explicit pro-ana content is not sought out and even when their TikTok use is time-limited in nature.' Dr Victoria Chapman is a child and adolescent psychiatrist at the Royal Free Hospital in London who specialises in eating disorders. She says that weight loss social media content often comes up in her clinical practice. 'When we meet patients, when we do assessments, we quite often ask what they're doing on social media,' she says. 'My view – and I think there's increasing evidence for this – is that these platforms that focus on image [such as TikTok and Instagram] are associated with the risk factors that make someone vulnerable to an eating disorder.' More worrying still is how severe mental illness in children and young people has risen. There has been a 65 per cent rise in the number of children admitted to acute hospital wards in England due to serious concerns over their mental health in a decade, according to a study published in the Lancet Child & Adolescent Health journal. Over half – 53.4 per cent – were due to self-harm, but the number of annual admissions for eating disorders surged over the same period, from 478 to 2,938. 'We know that a combination of genetics, biological factors and sociocultural factors contribute to the development of an eating disorder,' says Umairah Malik, the clinical manager for Beat, an eating disorder charity. 'Some of these sociocultural factors include low self esteem, body dissatisfaction… alongside things like anxiety, depression and perfectionist traits. If someone is already vulnerable to developing an eating disorder, [social media] has the potential to be really harmful and damaging.' Chappaz may be fighting a losing battle – it seems that, even when social media platforms attempt to crack down on pro-anorexia content, it is impossible to stem the flow. When I first started researching this not-so-hidden online world, I found out that it wasn't difficult to access. If you search an obvious term in TikTok, such as 'skinny' or 'anorexia' a cartoon heart and a support message appears with links to mental health and eating disorder resources. TikTok does not allow content showing or promoting disordered eating or dangerous weight-loss behaviours, and age-restricts content that idealises certain (thin) body types. But despite these safety measures, users may circumvent content filters by using covert hashtags – misspelt words, for instance, or abbreviations – and speak in code. Moreover, some concerning videos seem to be hiding in plain sight: under the seemingly benign 'weight loss' tag, videos promoting extreme dieting and unhealthy body weights appear. Amy Glover, a 29-year-old writer in recovery from an eating disorder, discovered that it was almost impossible to avoid this kind of content on TikTok, no matter how hard she tried. 'It feels to me like any food or exercise-related search I make [on social media] eventually leads to weight-loss content, and [it's] quite often not what I would consider healthy advice,' she says. 'I wonder if the algorithm is simply 'testing' more controversial content on me. I find that frustrating and worrying… Eating disorders can be competitive and involve a lot of negative self-talk, which I feel a lot of these videos encourage.' Research conducted by Beat has shown that, even if harmful social media content doesn't directly cause eating disorders, it can easily exacerbate them. 'It goes beyond young people,' Malik says. 'We did a survey in 2022, looking at online platforms – of the people who answered, over 90 per cent of those with experience of having an eating disorder had encountered content online that was harmful in the context of that eating disorder. People talked about it being addictive, and not having control over the content that was being displayed. 'That kind of content could be actively encouraging, promoting or glamourising an eating disorder, but then you also have things like diet culture, fitness and weight-loss content that can [also] be really harmful for people,' she adds. A TikTok spokesperson says: 'We regularly review our safety measures to address evolving risks and have blocked search results for #SkinnyTok since it has become linked to unhealthy weight loss content. We continue to restrict videos from teen accounts and provide health experts and information in TikTok Search.' Glover is four years into her recovery, and now in her late 20s, which she says makes it easier. But these algorithms – which seem to be fine-tuned to pick up on the slightest hint of body insecurity – could be force-feeding these videos to young women and girls who are much younger. TikTok, of course, is where they spend all their time. Ofcom research earlier this year found 96 percent of 13-17 year olds in the UK are on social media. While the app takes measures to shut down dangerous hashtags (as it did with #legginglegs, another tag related to disordered eating, earlier this year), it is like playing whack-a-mole, as more content springs up to evade the platform's safety features. What is clear, though, is that its preternatural algorithm can make this worse, serving up potentially dangerous content to those who aren't even looking for it. 'Even after reporting harmful content or attempting to avoid it, users often still see more being recommended to them, or popping up without warning. We'd like to know what platforms plan to do about recommended content and algorithms,' says Tom Quinn, Beat's director of external affairs. 'We know that people who create and share this kind of content are often unwell themselves... but we'd like to see more proactivity and extensive bans on damaging content being uploaded or shared. Alongside this, we want to see platforms working with eating disorder experts to improve moderation efforts and ensure that recovery-positive, support-based content is widely available,' he adds. In her own defence, Schmidt has said, 'We all have the option to follow and block any content we want.' But when you're a teenager, and potentially a vulnerable one, should the social media platforms be doing more to block it for you? Some lawmakers now certainly think so – and few parents would disagree.
News18
29-06-2025
- Health
- News18
What Is #SkinnyTok And Why TikTok Decided To Ban It
Last Updated: TikTok has removed the widely used hashtag #SkinnyTok following backlash over its promotion of harmful and unrealistic body ideals. In recent times, social media has become a go-to place for health and fitness tips. Among the most popular content are videos where people proudly share their weight loss journeys. These clips often attract a lot of attention and inspire others to try the same tricks to lose weight. Many of these trending methods are unsafe and can harm your health. As reported by USA Today, TikTok recently removed the hashtag #SkinnyTok after receiving backlash for promoting unhealthy body standards and risky weight loss methods. It isn't the first incident of its kind. Back in September, content creator Liv Schmidt was banned for building her social media presence around extreme thinness and rapid weight loss tips. From #SkinnyTok to various diet challenges, platforms like TikTok are flooded with health and fitness videos. While they may seem helpful, these videos often make bold claims about quick weight loss that aren't supported by science. What's worrying is that many people try them without understanding the possible health risks. It's important to remember that not everything online is safe. Following unverified trends can do more harm than good, especially when it comes to your health. It's not just the hashtags; many of the so-called weight loss hacks shared on TikTok are also reportedly raising concerns among health experts. One trending method involves Ozempic, a medicine meant for diabetes. Some people are using it as a quick weight loss fix, but experts warn it can cause serious side effects like nausea, inflammation of the pancreas, and even thyroid tumours, according to Another viral hack is mixing coffee and lemon juice to reduce hunger. While some influencers claim it helps with appetite control, they often leave out the risks—this mix can cause dehydration and may even lead to stomach ulcers. There's also a growing trend of drinking rice water as a way to speed up metabolism. However, there's no scientific proof that this works and health experts don't recommend it. Lastly, extreme fasting, where people go without food for long periods, is being promoted as a quick way to lose weight. But this can lead to muscle loss and a lack of essential nutrients, which can seriously harm the body. These so-called hacks may seem like easy solutions, but they often come with hidden dangers and little to no real health benefits. First Published:
Hindustan Times
27-06-2025
- Health
- Hindustan Times
#SkinnyTok banned: A look a viral weight loss hacks on TikTok and why you should avoid them
Scrolling through social media quite often lands users on videos featuring people gushing about their weight loss journeys. This has become a highly popular trend, and people look forward to trying out these hacks to shed some extra kilos. However, these trends more often than not pose health risks. TikTok has banned #SkinnyTok According to USA Today, TikTok recently put a ban on the hashtag #SkinnyTok after multiple warnings and public outrage regarding the trend promotion of highly dangerous body standards and extreme weight loss. This hasn't happened for the first time. In September last year, Liv Schmidt got banned after building her platform around weight loss and thinness. From #SkinnyTok to extreme diet challenges, social media platforms, such as TikTok, are filled with millions of videos centered around health and wellness. Viewed by a large number of users, these videos boast about how people can shed weight in less amount of time. What remains concerning is that such trends fail to have any scientific backing and often can end up posing serious health risks to individuals. Also read: Influencer Erika Cramer's Instagram account suspended due to shocking reason: 'I've been accused...' Popular weight loss hacks on TikTok Ozempic medication Although a diabetes medication, Ozempic is misused by individuals and promoted as a fast weight-loss solution. But experts suggest that it can ultimately lead to serious side effects, such as nausea, pancreatitis, and thyroid tumors, according to digital magazine Coffee and lemonade Having a mix of coffee and lemon juice can help in suppressing appetite, according to some social media influencers. However, they fail to inform their fans that it can ultimately lead to dehydration and even stomach ulcers in some cases. Rice water detox Another popular health trend advises consuming rice water as a metabolism booster. This is being promoted without any scientific evidence supporting the claim. Extreme fasting Fasting for longer periods can result in muscle loss and deficiency of nutrients in the body, according to experts. FAQs: 1. Does Ozempic help in weight loss? According to the Cleveland Clinic, taking Ozempic or similar medications makes more GLP-1 in the body, which decreases appetite and makes people feel fuller. 2. What is #SkinnyTok? This was a popular hashtag on TikTok, which promoted content which advises people on how to be skinnier. 3. What's the best method for weight loss? There are several authentic ways advised by experts to lose weight, with sustainable lifestyle changes being a key focus.
USA Today
24-06-2025
- Health
- USA Today
TikTok has banned #SkinnyTok, but will it make a difference?
TikTok has banned the hashtag #SkinnyTok after public outrage and warnings that it was promoting unrealistic body standards, eating disorders and extreme weight loss. It's not the first time content like this has been blocked by the platform. In September, influencer Liv Schmidt, who built her platform on the outward pursuit of thinness, growing a following of 670,000, was banned. 'Basic fit because the accessory is being blonde & skinny,' she captioned one outfit video on Instagram, where she now has over 320,000 followers. 'Please don't ask me how I'm so skinny if you're not ready for the answers,' she wrote over another. #SkinnyTok's content is eerily similar to the thinspo – or, inspiration on how to be skinnier – that dominated social media platforms like Tumblr in the 2010s. Though Tumblr, Instagram and Pinterest banned #thinspo in 2012, it didn't stop these communities from populating the sites. Even with the ban of #SkinnyTok, removing harmful content may be an uphill battle. Content creators like Schmidt have paved the way for the 'skinny influencer,' and mental health experts have cautioned that this represents a larger shift in how Americans are discussing thinness. 'We're almost seeing a return to the outward profession of the desire to be skinny, whereas for a while it's been, 'I want to be healthier, I want to engage in wellness,'' said University of Vermont associate professor Lizzy Pope, whose research focuses on how diet culture appears in popular culture and on social media. 'What I'm seeing is a return of that language being accepted.' The era of #SkinnyTok, Liv Schmit and 'gym bros' TikTok banned Schmidt's account for violating the site's community guidelines, according to the Wall Street Journal. A TikTok spokesperson did not respond to USA TODAY's request for comment on specifics, but some of Schmidt's videos appeared to violate the site's disordered eating and body image guidelines, which prohibit content that "promotes potentially harmful weight management." However, other communities on TikTok also promote unrealistic body standards, but do so under the guise of wellness. Some 'gym bros' are sharing similar content, amassing followers by sharing their tough-to-achieve physiques and gym journeys. A simple TikTok search of 'trust the bulk' will lead users to thousands of transformation videos, with many detailing how they toned their bodies through binge/purge cycles and excessive exercise. When regular gym goers don't see these same results, body dysmorphia and disordered eating practices can worsen, according to therapist and certified eating disorder specialist Sarah Davis. Experts say this is contributing to a culture of orthorexia, a lesser-known eating disorder characterized by an obsession with clean, healthy eating. More: Are 'gym bros' cultivating a culture of orthorexia? The rise in 'skinny' content can influence disordered eating in young people Sneakily named hashtags and covert 'what I eat in a day" videos that often portray unhealthy caloric intake also allow users to evade TikTok's new #SkinnyTok ban and restrictions around posting harmful weight-related content. Factors like social media and isolation have contributed to a large increase in youth eating disorders since the pandemic. The most widely viewed food, nutrition and weight content on TikTok are videos that perpetuate toxic diet culture among teens and young adults, according to a 2022 University of Vermont study that analyzed the top 100 videos from popular nutrition, food and weight-related hashtags. Lizzy Pope, one of the study's coauthors, said representation of diet culture and weight loss was framed as a part of being healthy or being fit in most of the videos they analyzed. If they did the study again in 2025, she suspects they would find 'a lot more of this very blatant, 'I'm doing this to be skinny' content.' In general, the best way to minimize eating disorder-related content is not to interact with it in the first place, since commenting or liking videos makes similar content more likely to appear in one's algorithm. Pope said working on the ability to reject content is an important aspect of making sure toxic diet culture doesn't permeate one's mental health, and recommended seeking professional support through therapists and dietitians if unhealthy thoughts persist. Contributing: Rachel Hale
Atlantic
21-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Atlantic
When SkinnyTok Came for Me
The bride had to do just one last thing before she walked down the aisle. '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.' Was she writing to an estranged friend? An old lover—the one that got away? At the beginning of her 'journey,' the bride weighed 134 pounds. 'My goal was to just lose 5lbs,' she wrote, but she had somehow dropped down to 110. 'I'm crying writing this because I have never felt so healthy and confident. THANK YOU!!!' The message was accompanied by two photos—a before and an after. The first shows a thin woman who looks to be a size 2 or 4. In the second, the woman's bones are visible beneath her skin, and her leggings sag. She owed all of this to Liv Schmidt, a 23-year-old influencer known for her harsh, no-bullshit approach to staying thin. 'You feel like a best friend and sister to me,' the bride wrote to Schmidt, who shared the message on Instagram. Schmidt is the queen of SkinnyTok—a corner of the internet where thin, mostly white women try to make America skinny again. Her 'what I eat in a day to stay skinny' videos thrust her into virality about a year ago. There she is with her mint tea—which she always drinks before eating anything, to check if she's really hungry or just bored—or a mile-high ice-cream sundae that she'll take three bites of before tossing. She's very clear: She stays skinny by not eating much. Many find this refreshingly honest. Others think she's promoting eating disorders. Influencers have condemned her; magazines have published scathing critiques. Last month, Meta removed her ability to sell subscriptions ($20 a month for access to private content and a group chat called the 'Skinni Société') on Instagram, and this month, TikTok banned the SkinnyTok hashtag worldwide, saying it was 'linked to unhealthy weight loss content.' And in response, the right has championed Schmidt. She has been canceled, and she may be more powerful than ever. I didn't mean to join the legions of young women on SkinnyTok. It happened fast. I liked an Instagram reel about an 'Easy High Protein, Low Calorie Breakfast.' What I got next, I didn't ask for. Within hours, my Instagram 'explore' page was flooded with videos of conventionally pretty, thin women preaching one message: Stop eating. Phrases such as 'You're not a dog, don't treat yourself with food' and the Kate Moss classic, 'Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,' began to flood my feed—and my subconscious. At lunch with a friend one Saturday, I didn't finish my salad. 'Do you know Liv Schmidt?' I asked. 'The three-bite rule? Of course I do. She's kind of a genius.' I realized I wasn't down this rabbit hole alone. Conor Friedersdorf: The many ripple effects of the weight-loss industry 'I know the advice I'm getting from these women is not healthy,' another friend said, but 'everything I want is on the other side of being skinny, and these women are going to help me get there.' 'I like SkinnyTok. It helps me to not eat 'the extra thing' I don't need. Don't like it? Don't follow it.' 'It's internalized misogynistic brainwash!' 'I love that skinny bitch.' Where had Schmidt come from, and what had happened to the 'body positivity' movement that had been so loudly touted through the past decade? You can form a community around anything online. When I was a kid in the 2000s, teenage girls with eating disorders were gathering on 'thinspiration' websites, where they could exchange tips. Tabloids sold copies off body shaming—one day Britney Spears was too fat; the next, Lindsay Lohan was too skinny—and my friends and I were going around with 100-calorie Chips Ahoy! packs in our lunchboxes. By the time I was a teenager, the body-positivity movement had arrived, promising to change the culture. Plus-size models started appearing in ad campaigns. The problem wasn't women's bodies, activists argued, but women feeling bad about their bodies. Yet when people tried to force society to embrace new body norms, society lashed out, bringing to the surface a lot of underlying hatred. 'Body positivity didn't resonate with a lot of people, because it felt like lying,' Maalvika Bhat, a 25-year-old TikTok influencer who is getting a doctorate in computer science and communication at Northwestern University, told me. Many felt that the movement was in denial about both the practical health risks of being overweight and America's willingness to put its engrained fat phobia aside. Ozempic has accelerated that backlash against body positivity. Many of the plus-size leaders of the body-positivity movement shut up and shrunk down. Their followers noticed that they were using a weight-loss drug. Apparently you didn't have to love yourself as you were—and you didn't have to suffer to change, either. You just had to have a prescription and enough money to pay for it. But what about those pesky last 10 pounds, the difference between being a size 6 and a size 2? Although some healthy-weight women with no medical reason to take GLP-1 drugs have nonetheless found work-arounds to get their hands on the medication, most aren't going to those lengths. How would they keep up now that skinny was back? For some, the answer was SkinnyTok. You don't need a prescription to be ultrathin. You just need a bad relationship with food, fueled by a skinny stranger yelling mean-girl mantras at you. In the end, the body-positivity movement's lasting effect may have been to prove the validity of the very message it was trying to combat—that thinner people are treated better. At least, many women feel, SkinnyTok is telling them the truth. As one SkinnyTok influencer put it, 'Don't sugarcoat that or you'll eat that too.' I started listening more closely to the SkinnyTok videos. They weren't just about self-deprivation. They were about being classy. They were about being a lady—the right kind of woman, one that men drool over. They were, most importantly, about being small. In one of Schmidt's videos, she's approached by a man in a black car during a photo shoot. The caption reads: 'This is the treatment Skinni gets you. Was just taking pics … Then a Rolls-Royce rolled up begging for my number like I'm on the menu mid photo. He saw clavicle he swerved. He saw cheekbones lost composure.' From the July 2025 Issue: Inside the exclusive, obsessive, surprisingly litigious world of luxury fitness SkinnyTok influencers basically never talk in their videos about politics. They aren't preaching about Donald Trump—let alone about issues such as abortion or immigration. And yet everything they talk about—the emphasis on girls and how girls need to behave and how small they need to be—is, of course, political. A few days after my Instagram feed surrendered to the SkinnyTok takeover, the tradwife content began to sneak in. Beautiful women baking bread in linen dresses spoke to me about embracing my divine femininity. I should consider 'softer living' and 'embracing my natural role.' All of a sudden, I wondered whether I, a single woman in her late 20s living in Manhattan, should trade it all in to become a mother of 10 on a farm in Montana. Watch a few more of these videos, and soon you'll be directed to the anti-vax moms, or the Turning Point USA sweetheart Alex Clark's wellness podcast, Cultural Apothecary, or the full-on conspiratorial alt-right universe. This is just how the internet works. Eviane Leidig, the author of The Women of the Far Right: Social Media Influencers and Online Radicalization, sees a connection between SkinnyTok and tradwives in their 'very strong visual representation of femininity.' Whether they mean to be or not, they have become part of the same pipeline. Algorithms grab your attention with lighter, relatable content while exposing you to more extremist viewpoints. The alt-right, she said, is great at making aspirational and seemingly apolitical content that viewers relate to. 'This is a deliberate strategy that the conservative space has been employing over the last several years to capitalize on cultural issues as a gateway to radicalize audiences into more extreme viewpoints.' Two months ago, Evie Magazine, a right-wing publication that promotes traditional femininity, ran a profile of Schmidt: 'Banned for Being Honest? Meet Liv Schmidt, the Girl Who Made 'Skinny' Go Viral.' The magazine had one of the biggest tradwife influencers, Hannah Neeleman of Ballerina Farm, on its cover back in November. The article about Schmidt focused on her being canceled and banned on a number of platforms for promoting thinness. 'I don't owe the internet a version of me that's palatable,' Schmidt told the magazine. 'If a girl bigger than me posted what I eat in a day, no one would care. But when I do, it becomes controversial. Why? Because I'm blonde, thin, young, and unapologetic.' Last year, Evie profiled Amanda Dobler, another SkinnyTok figurehead, whom it described as 'TikTok's skinny queen'—'both brutally honest and surprisingly sweet.' The more the left has attacked Schmidt, the more the right has celebrated her. Bhat, who describes herself as progressive, said, 'I think the left is deeply, deeply exclusive.' On the right, 'you're allowed to make dozens of mistakes and not be shunned. They say, 'If the left doesn't welcome you, we will.' And they always do.' You can't deduce a political manifesto from someone's Instagram followers, but it seems worth noting that Schmidt follows conservative figureheads including RFK Jr., Candace Owens, and Brett Cooper. When she posted about losing the paid-subscription feature on her Instagram, through which she had been making nearly $130,000 a month, according to AirMail, she tagged Joe Rogan. 'She's clearly trying to get her foot in the door with the alternatives,' Ali Ambrose, an influencer who critiques SkinnyTok, told me. (Ambrose struggled with an eating disorder for years, and says Schmidt's content pushed her back into unhealthy habits.) Schmidt's appeal does cross party lines, though. When I polled a politically diverse group of my own friends, my most conservative friends loved SkinnyTok. A number of my progressive friends did too; they just felt like they shouldn't say so out loud. Schmidt has written that the Skinni Société is not 'a starvation or extreme diet community.' She didn't respond to multiple requests for an interview, but I spoke with Amanda Dobler, another SkinnyTok influencer. She remains on TikTok, though she has twice been temporarily barred from its Creator Rewards Program, through which she made some money for her videos, for not abiding by 'community guidelines.' Dobler is almost 10 years older than Schmidt, so she attracts a slightly different demographic. I asked her if she considered herself a political person, or her content politically charged. She responded with a decisive no. 'I'm up at 4 a.m. working my ass off, so I would say I'm the opposite of a tradwife,' she told me. 'If people relate it to right wing, to left wing,' she said, 'there's only so much of the narrative that I can control.' Sophie Gilbert: What porn taught a generation of women Dobler is known for her directness. If anything, she's even harsher online than Schmidt is. Right before our call, I scrolled through her TikTok profile: 'You are killing yourself with the shit you eat. It's disgusting. And you should feel shameful.' I briefly wondered if she'd be able to detect my own insecurities through the phone. But the Dobler I spoke with was approachable and friendly. I instantly liked her. I even opened up to her about the things I wish I could change about my body. 'There's nothing wrong with wanting to look a little better,' she said. Unlike a number of SkinnyTok influencers who only just entered the field, Dobler has been a fat-loss and mindset coach for six years. She talks about the importance of getting your nutrients instead of exclusively practicing restraint. She also pushes for a consistent workout routine, while others focus exclusively on their step count to burn calories and avoid bulking at the gym (SkinnyTok is a spectrum). I brought up the criticism that SkinnyTok content encourages young people to adopt disordered-eating habits. Dobler said that she doesn't coach children, and that the majority of her clients are in their 30s through 50s. 'I get it. It's hard if you're a parent seeing stuff online,' she told me. 'But at the same time, there's porn online; there's a bunch of weird crap. I think that there is a lot of other censorship that should be going on.' When I asked why she was so harsh in her videos, she told me, 'That's the type of talk that I need. I wouldn't say that I'm mean. I'm just blunt.' She added, 'I've been in all of the situations that I'm talking through. So it's not like I'm just up here scolding people.' This echoed something Bhat had said to me: SkinnyTok's ruthless tone rings true to many women because they're already being so ruthless toward themselves. I'd be kidding myself if I said a woman's body size doesn't affect her prospects for dating, and even jobs. I would be lying if I said I did not desperately want to be slightly thinner—that I hadn't wanted that from the moment I first watched my mother critique her own body in her bedroom mirror. I hesitate to admit that I've lost four pounds since I saw my first SkinnyTok video. I have not walked 40,000 steps a day, nor have I stopped eating after three bites. I've just stopped eating when I'm full, which, as silly as it sounds, I did learn from SkinnyTok. Still, I think it's time to unsubscribe. The body of my dreams isn't worth risking my health for. I have two nieces, ages 3 and 6. I hate the idea that somebody might one day tell them to shrink themselves. To them, a swimsuit is nothing but a promise that they'll spend the afternoon running through the sprinkler. They're perfect, and they dream of being bigger, faster, stronger—not smaller.
