By Bella Stryker
Juice cleanses, keto, paleo, intermittent fasting, Whole30, animal-based—the list goes on. Fad diets, often endorsed by celebrities, have existed for as long as society itself. Even ancient Greek philosophers like Hippocrates promoted fasting and wine-based cleanses. Fast forward to the 1820s, and poet Lord Byron popularized extreme fasting and his infamous “Vinegar & Water Diet” as a way to stay slim.
These diets seem absurd in hindsight—but no more than Vogue’s infamous “Champagne Diet” from the 1970s, which suggested drinking Champagne with every meal for weight loss. (The magazine even republished the article in 2017—this time, as a joke.)
Now, in an era of body scans, wellness apps, and blood tests, it seems like we should be well beyond the days of fad diets. Science and registered nutritionists can tell us exactly where our deficiencies lie and how to address them. Yet even with all this progress, the pursuit of health—or more accurately, the pursuit of the “ideal” body—is still costly, time-consuming, and loaded with pressure. Instead of consulting professionals, most people turn to a far more convenient source of information: social media.
Platforms like TikTok have become the go-to wellness hubs, filled with quick tips, aesthetic meal preps, and influencer-endorsed routines. The problem? Most of this advice doesn’t come from qualified experts. It comes from influencers—or people hoping to become influencers—crafting content to match what their audience wants to hear. It’s not about credibility. It’s about clickability.
One of the most prominent voices in this space is Liv Schmidt, a self-proclaimed wellness guru whose viral TikToks promise dramatic results with minimal effort. “No stress, no effort—just simple, plain results,” she declares in one of her videos. Her approach? Eating the smallest portions possible. Schmidt has gained massive attention online for her diet and fitness advice—despite having previously been banned from the platform for spreading misinformation and promoting disordered eating habits. Her meteoric rise was so striking that The New York Times profiled her, unpacking the thinly veiled dangers behind her success.
The kind of content Schmidt creates is everywhere—and it’s shifting the way people talk about food and bodies. Protein drinks like CorePower have become the unofficial currency of wellness TikTok. Videos of high-protein meals, smoothies with collagen peptides, and “proffee” (protein coffee) rack up millions of views. Unlike old-school diet culture, which preached restriction, today’s trends emphasize “fueling” the body—but still with the goal of achieving an ideal physique.
Instead of just being thin, the goal is now to be lean, sculpted, and strong—but not too strong. Women are encouraged to chase a very specific aesthetic: low body fat, visible abs, and just enough muscle tone to signal that you work out, but not enough to challenge conventional beauty norms. Protein-heavy diets and boutique pilates-based workout classes have become the norm. Think Forma Pilates, Tracy Anderson etc. Along with this, the clean-girl wellness aesthetic has taken over—complete with dewy skin, minimalist gym wear, and $19 Erewhon smoothies.
This shift in language and lifestyle might make it seem like we’ve left toxic body standards in the past, but in reality, we’ve just rebranded them. TikTok is filled with terms like “skinty,” “morning skinny,” “Slavic girl diet,” and “WIEIAD” (What I Eat in a Day), all of which reinforce the same pressures we’ve seen before—just dressed in new vocabulary. The feedback loop is constant: content begets more content, all reinforcing a narrow beauty ideal.
It’s nothing new. In the 2010s, YouTube was flooded with Victoria’s Secret models sharing their “What I Eat in a Day” vlogs. Today’s versions on TikTok are nearly identical, just with better lighting and trendier aesthetics. The message hasn’t changed: to be desirable, you have to be disciplined—and that discipline better show on your body.
All of this is unfolding alongside the rising popularity of Ozempic and other GLP-1 drugs, which have made rapid weight loss both more visible and more accessible—at least for those who can afford it. The result? A new body standard that’s once again unattainable for the majority. The current “It body” is slim, toned, and Ozempic-slim—maintained through protein shakes, strength training, and, for some, injections.
Corporations have taken this concept and sprinted with it. One brand, Arrae (who you’ve definitely seen on TikTok shop) has a “lean and define” duo that costs a whopping $120 a month…. And its not even an actual GLP-1. Instead it’s marketed as a supplement and towards a younger generation.
So while it might seem like society has entered a more balanced, health-oriented era, the truth is more complicated. Diet culture didn’t disappear—it just got a wellness makeover. We’re no longer being told to shrink ourselves through starvation. We’re being encouraged to optimize, to become clean, efficient, and high-functioning. The language has changed. The pressure hasn’t.
And while “strong not skinny” may sound more empowering, it still centers women’s worth on appearance. It still demands perfection. It still costs time, energy, and often money. Whether it’s a champagne glass or a CorePower bottle, the message remains the same: control your body, and you’ll be closer to beauty.
Wellness might look prettier than diet culture ever did. But once you peel back the layers of filters, hashtags, and pastel smoothies, it becomes clear: it’s the same old pressure—just wearing a matching workout set.
