The Death of Body Positivity: Is “Heroin Chic” Back?

2006 Billboard featuring Kate Moss // Photo Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”: the infamous words of 90s supermodel, Kate Moss have become emblematic for “heroin chic”, a trend romanticising dangerous thinness. Recently, cocaine couture has, unfortunately, found its way back into pop culture’s zeitgeist. But is the glamourisation of the waif look as rampant as it once was?

From size 00 jeans to Fashion Nova ‘BBL dresses’, women’s bodies go in and out of style quicker than fashion trends on a runway. Yet, the current shift feels particularly troubling. The body positivity movement of the 2010s, which celebrated diverse shapes and sizes, seems to be fading into obscurity. Instead, it’s been replaced by a toxic obsession with thinness that’s eerily reminiscent of the 90s and early 2000s.

Ironically, part of this cycle began with the Kardashians. Notwithstanding all the damage they’ve done to beauty standards—their cultural appropriation, Facetune, and denials of getting surgery—Kim Kardashian was one of the first major celebrities to popularise curvier shapes. Although black women have long been criticised for the same features that earned Kim her fame, her body was heralded as a departure from the size-zero dominance of the early 2000s. Strangely, it helped open the door to a more accessible beauty standard. The rise of body positivity followed, amplifying plus-sized creators and reshaping conversations around beauty. After decades of young girls feeling trapped by unachievable standards, it felt like progress, even if it was imperfect.

But that progress now feels stagnant. The 2020s have seen fewer plus-sized creators celebrated on social media, and less visibility for body positivity as a whole. The Kardashians themselves seem to have turned away from the curvier aesthetic they once championed, with rumors swirling about many of them dissolving their BBLs and Kim’s highly publicised decision to starve herself to fit into Marilyn Monroe’s dress.

Content echoing the pro-ana (pro-anorexia) culture of early Tumblr has made its way onto X. Celebrities and influencers once considered plus-sized are becoming noticeably thinner, as Ozempic allegations flood their comment sections. TikToks labelled “What I Eat in a Day”, featuring models barely eating enough, have garnered millions of views. “Body checking”—unsubtly showing off slim waistlines, flat stomachs, and thigh gaps—is inescapable. 

It is clear that “heroin chic” is the new It Girl aesthetic; if beauty influencers could find a way to add their unprescribed Ozempic to their Amazon storefront, they would. Given the dangers of this aesthetic, it’s worth examining how and why this trend is gaining traction again. The biggest tell is that we’re once again glamorising the wrong people. Victoria’s Secret angels and supermodels—the Gisele Bündchens, Adriana Limas, and Naomi Campbells of the world—have returned to the forefront, alongside the celebration of their substance abuse-ridden lifestyles. But is this resurgence as detrimental as it was in the 90s, when beauty standards pushed countless women to starvation and self-destruction in the name of keeping a low body fat percentage? Now, at the very least, the internet is so expansive that dangerous narratives at least feel less ubiquitous.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not a cause for concern. We cannot allow history to repeat itself. These trends don’t exist in a vacuum; they shape how people see themselves, and their long-term impact on mental health, self-esteem, and physical well-being cannot be ignored. When influencers normalise starvation, when algorithms prioritise content glorifying disordered eating, and when society’s greatest aspiration becomes looking like you’re perpetually unwell, it’s clearer than ever that these aesthetics are becoming a health hazard.

Calorie counting shouldn’t be entertainment, nor should content creators glorify disordered eating. “Body checking” and fatphobic rhetoric perpetuate harm, feeding a culture that values appearance over health. Idolising coked-up supermodels simply on the basis of their thinness signals a dangerous shift back toward the normalisation of self-harm in the name of arbitrary beauty standards, a reality we must actively resist.

Body positivity was always flawed, but it offered an alternative: a vision of beauty where women could exist without shame. To lose that now would be devastating, particularly for a younger generation growing up with such pervasive social media. The death of body positivity isn’t just about beauty standards—it’s about our collective well-being. We owe it to ourselves to demand something better.