I can’t believe it took me 34 years to come to this realization. Like many, I grew up in a culture that equates a woman’s value with her attractiveness, which is often tied to her appearance—especially her body size. This damaging message was reinforced repeatedly, sometimes overtly and sometimes in subtle ways. While most of us can easily recognize outright abuse, like someone striking you, the more insidious forms of messaging—such as a TV show declaring, “She’s not pretty because she’s not a size __,”—can slip by unnoticed. The harm caused by rarely seeing plus-size characters whose narratives extend beyond their weight often goes unrecognized until years later.
As a child, I rarely saw anyone on screen who resembled me. The only representation for those who didn’t conform to the ’90s “heroin chic” ideal was often relegated to the role of the fat sidekick. The books I read were filled with discussions of disordered eating, as noted in the work of nutritionist Haley Goodrich, who explains that diets are merely varied forms of disordered eating. Regardless of my actual size, I never saw myself reflected in the media—because those characters mattered; they were the ones men chose.
I have a hormonal condition called polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), a history of disordered eating influenced by the ’90s culture, and a family legacy of “thick thighs saving lives.” Listing these factors only serves to qualify my worth, and I’m done with that. My worth is inherent—simply because I exist.
Here’s a crucial point: I am desirable too. Perhaps not to everyone—who is?—but to some people, I absolutely am. And so are you. Yet, the media often fails to reflect this reality.
A couple of years ago, as my eldest child began reading the Babysitters’ Club series and watching reruns of Full House—both of which I cherished growing up—I realized that there were no characters who deviated from Hollywood’s beauty standards. If a character didn’t fit that mold, their storyline was typically centered around their looks or the struggles that came with them—dieting, rejection, or teasing. The underlying message? Life would be better if they just changed themselves.
Raising awareness about society’s harsh treatment of those who don’t fit these unrealistic beauty norms is important, but that’s only part of the conversation. Last year, I reached out to friends on social media for recommendations of shows featuring body-positive themes, especially characters who aren’t confined to small bodies. The responses were dishearteningly few. One show my children enjoyed was Annedroids on Amazon Prime, which emphasizes science and friendship, and includes a character who is not in a very small body. This character is funny, intelligent, and charming. However, when my daughters watch TV, they’ve never chosen to identify with her. At just six and eight years old, they’ve already absorbed society’s narrow definitions of beauty.
As many of us find ourselves browsing Netflix during the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve been gravitating toward older shows rather than the latest hits. I recently finished Mad Men and started watching Younger—recommended by friends as “mindless fun” featuring attractive men. The premise revolves around a 40-year-old divorced woman in New York City who lies about her age to land a job in publishing, while exploring her own identity and dating life.
If you’ve ever been divorced or know someone who has, you understand how self-esteem can plummet. Questions about desirability surface, alongside confusion about one’s identity. The character in Younger appears to have no body insecurities, easily passing for someone in her twenties. This is typical for television, particularly on networks like the CW.
Two minor characters in this show, however, reflect bodies that resemble mine. One is a woman who laments her lack of romantic prospects amidst her friends’ affairs, and the other is a bar patron who steals a chair from the main character. These are the only two characters I’ve seen who don’t conform to the typical small-body standard, reflecting how skewed this representation really is.
This piece won’t conclude with a neat solution or a bow on top. I’m frustrated, and the beauty of the internet allows me to express that frustration. We—artists, writers, and everyday people—must strive for better representation. Not only for our children but for ourselves too.
For more on related topics, check out this insightful post regarding the emotional journey of home insemination. Additionally, for authoritative resources on pregnancy and home insemination, visit UCSF and explore Make A Mom for practical guidance.
Summary
The article emphasizes the lack of representation for plus-size women in the entertainment industry, illustrating how societal standards of beauty have long impacted perceptions of worth and desirability. The author shares personal experiences and frustrations while calling for better representation in media, highlighting the need for narratives that celebrate diversity in body types.
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