From ‘Barbie’ to Ozempic

What Hollywood’s ‘don’t tell’ weight loss culture means for the rest of us

Hey, everyone. Today, I’m sharing an opinion piece I wrote several weeks ago that was loosely timed to the Oscars. It references Oprah Winfrey’s December recent weight loss reveal and admission of using weight loss injectables, timed with Weight Watchers’ announcement that it was now selling those injectables. Since I originally wrote this piece, news broke that Oprah is parting ways with WeightWatchers, which had its most dismal revenue performance in January.

I’ve sat with this for months. 

Since the opening weekend of the “Barbie” movie, a film hailed by many as a feminist triumph. 

Yet, after sitting through it in the darkened theater with my husband, adult son and two teenage daughters on opening weekend, I was angry, unable to reconcile the mixed messages it delivered. Barbie Land was every bit as fantastical as Stereotypical Barbie’s proportions, while her and Ken’s visit to reality was a too-real reflection of the world we live in. The behaviors of both sexes post-reality only added to my discomfort. I never once lost myself in the storyline or forgot who or what I was: an average, middle-age white woman who has seen too much sexism in her lifetime. 

But the tipping point came during Gloria's much-heralded monologue, delivered by actress America Ferrera. As she decried the unrealistic standards imposed on women, I felt confusion at first, followed by anger. Here was Ferrera, once celebrated for representing an “average-size woman” now shrunk to Hollywood proportions, railing about how “you have to be thin but not say you want to be thin.”

The moment should have been empowering, a rallying cry for women everywhere to embrace their natural selves. And many interpreted it that way, including my kids. To me, it was nothing more than lip service and white lies. 

What the monologue should have said is:

“You have to be thin, but not too thin,

and if you can’t achieve it naturally,

you have to undertake it by any means necessary,

even if it means starving yourself …

but also you can’t talk about it,

and if someone asks,

you have to say you did it for your health …

and, most important, it was hard work.”

Throughout awards season, Hollywood’s “don’t tell” policy of celebrity weight loss was in full effect. As Ozempic and related drugs reached new heights of popularity, already slender stars became rails. Our curvy actresses, those with more statuesque bodies, still had epic proportions, just less flesh. (In a bizarre twist, even the drug makers are now taking aim at Hollywood’s use of its weight loss drugs.)

But we can’t blame people for wanting to look better when we live in a society that rewards it.

The reason I’ve sat with these feelings for months is because I’m not supposed to be commenting on bodies. By doing so, I’m joining the masses that value appearance over talent, perpetuating a cycle that reduces accomplished women to mere physical shells. However, I’m disappointed. By a system that makes women feel they must do this in order to not just be admired but seen and that so many women view celebs’ dramatic weight losses and think it's the ultimate achievement, something they also must aspire to. 

This is not to shame those who choose to change their bodies, whether for personal satisfaction, career advancement, or any other reason at all. The issue lies not with individual choices but with a system that coerces compliance. As individuals, we're left to make our way in a world where authenticity is touted but rarely practiced, where the celebration of diverse body types has shrunk as demand for these much-hyped weight loss injectables has grown. And those who do tell usually have something to sell. 

Take Oprah, for example. The Queen of Daytime TV triumphantly revealed her latest weight loss and confessed she had used the injectables just as WeightWatchers announced its launch of a weight loss prescription program (Winfrey has been the company’s most successful spokesperson and a key stakeholder, though just a few weeks ago after the company’s worst January, she announced she was stepping down from its board). 

Meanwhile, those who won’t—or can’t—shrink themselves are forced to defend themselves. Christina Applegate joked about her “body not by Ozempic” at this year’s Emmys, the result of living with the effects of Multiple Sclerosis. In January, Selena Gomez explained (again) that her weight fluctuates because of drugs she takes to treat lupus. She penned an ode to her former body on social media, acknowledging “I will never look like that again.” 

Failing disease or life-threatening illness, are we all supposed to fall in line, now that weight loss is supposedly so achievable? Many of us will and have—the stigma is too great not to. Still, whether we like it or not, the minute we willfully shrink ourselves, we reinforce the idea that the only acceptable size is thin.

It's a vicious cycle where the act of reducing our physical presence becomes a silent affirmation of a standard that marginalizes and diminishes those unable or unwilling to fit it.

A few weeks ago, the New York Times featured a piece about how we feel when our favorite body positive influencers lose weight. The overwhelming sentiment? Betrayal.

It took me months to articulate it, even to myself, but betrayal and disappointment are the emotions I felt after seeing the “Barbie” movie and its monologue. For me, it underscored a larger truth: Body diversity is, at best, lip service for most of us, not just mainstream media.

We’re encouraged to support the ideals of inclusivity, so long as we still conform to the more narrow standards of beauty.

And, yet, despite these challenges, there is still a glimmer of resistance. A handful of women in Hollywood refuse to shrink themselves to Barbie-sized proportions, occupying their space unapologetically. They offer hope for those of us yearning for a world where beauty is as diverse as humanity itself. Besides, if they give up the fight, what chance is there for the rest of us?