TW: mentions eating disorders
Operating as a woman in the modern world grants you acute spatial awareness. Sitting in an airplane seat, you’re often sure to keep your legs crossed snugly or otherwise tucked inwards to avoid taking up the space of fellow passengers seated beside you. The antithesis of manspreading. Walking down the street, a throng of bustling folks or a speedy commuter barrelling towards you, you’re often sure to twist and contort your body so you’re not in the way of their route. And if one of them clips your shoulder, you’re often sure to throw out an “I’m sorry” or “excuse me!” alongside a lighthearted laugh.
Ankles crisscrossed. Elbows tucked in. Clothes and fruit, shoes and hairpins all neatly folded or inserted in Tupperware and acrylic containers to be stored away and contained. Girls and women are expected to take up little space - in all senses of the word.
About 9% of the global population will experience an eating disorder and women are about 1.75 to 3 times more likely than men to experience one during their lifetime. While many studies on the prevalence of recognized eating disorders like anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, and binge eating disorder exist, far fewer do for orthorexia nervosa. Orthorexia can be defined as an obsession with healthy eating and associated restrictive behaviors. Dr. Jonathan R. Scraff acknowledges that it is a “little-understood disorder with uncertain etiology, imprecise assessment tools, and no formal diagnostic criteria or classification" and thus its characteristics can range.
Katey Davidson RD describes orthorexia as involving a preoccupation with food quality, sometimes involving behavior like obsessively checking ingredient lists and nutrition labels, experiencing fear of “unhealthy” foods, avoiding food prepared by others, and cutting out large groups of food without any medical, religious, cultural, or ethical reasoning.
While many have understandably linked disordered eating patterns to beauty culture, those who have experienced eating disorders have discussed that there’s more to them than cultural forces. In this amazing interview with eating disorder recovery coach and disability advocate Jayne Mattingly, she explains that genetics, trauma, and so much more play into someone’s disordered eating. At the same time, when asked if it would be easier to recover on a deserted island, Jayne’s reply is simple:
Many social media users are well aware by now that short-form video content is buzzing across platforms like Instagram, YouTube, and of course TikTok with fiery fervor. Of these videos, some that find immense success revolve around food content. The fast-paced, photogenic, and seemingly apolitical nature of this content enhances its virality appeal. Delectable meals come together at lightning speed or at a slow, dreamy cadence, all with a focus on the hands preparing the food and the highly saturated, exquisite-looking ingredients.
The hashtag #healthyfood has about 111 million posts under it on Instagram. Click on the hashtag and you will find videos of recipes that allegedly aid in weight loss, “healthier” versions of desserts, and some posts detailing the exact calorie count of popular Starbucks drinks.
Another interesting iteration of food content that was seemingly born on YouTube before migrating to its short form on TikTok is “What I Eat in a Day” videos. Often in the style of a casual “vlog,” the content clearly takes inspiration from “What I Do in a Day” videos, which consist of creators informally taking viewers along with them as they go through their day-to-day tasks. In “What I Eat in a Day” videos, the plot points revolve around meals - breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and snacks - all documented like a careful scientist detailing her methodologies.
On YouTube, “What I Eat in a Day” videos often contain a bit more context thanks to the longer-form option. Creators often show themselves preparing their meals, scanning the fridge, selecting ingredients, and sharing recipes in a way that feels somewhere between a Food Network show and chatting with a friend on FaceTime during their lunch break.
However, the shorter-form content on TikTok is stripped of context. Instead of seeing the time, effort, and thought being put into the meal, you simply see quick overhead snapshots of food with vague text overlaid. In my opinion, the strangest part of these videos on TikTok is the “body checks” that often accompany them at the beginning of the video. Before the meals are shared, the creator shows a short clip of herself posing in front of the camera, often in athleisure that displays her physique. The words “What I Eat in a Day” flash above her head as she points upwards while shifting positions, making the sentiment feel more like a prescription than a description. Here’s what to eat to look like me!
As someone who enjoys cooking and trying out new recipes, I like watching these videos to an extent. This type of content can act as a source of inspiration as I sketch out my meals for the week and figure out ways to maximize what’s in my fridge. And at the same time, I wasn’t surprised to discover studies highlighting that the healthy eating community on Instagram has a high prevalence of orthorexia signs, with higher Instagram use being linked to increased symptoms.
As much as I try to remind myself, my brain seems to suffer from short-term memory loss when it comes to recalling the inauthenticity that embodies the social media industrial complex. I can’t blame it though, because this inauthenticity finds ways to reinvent itself, discovering better tactics to camouflage as reality to make content appear more relatable, likable, and profitable. Early 2000s magazines detailing celebrities’ get-thin-quick diets become “What I Eat in a Day” videos from real-life conventionally attractive people, all of which propagates Panopticon-like surveillance of the types of food I’m consuming and how it compares with what the “beautiful” people are consuming.
When I reach the day’s end, I’ll sometimes find myself mentally rattling off What I Ate That Day. The names of the ingredients roll around in my head in a classic sing-song influencer dialect as I brush my teeth.
Not necessarily a constraint. But certainly an acute awareness.
It’s quite easy to forget that what we’re viewing on social media is intensely curated. Outdoor Voices-clad influencers smiling alongside their acai bowls, kale salads, and frozen dark-chocolate-dipped bananas are real to a degree. But their social media feeds can only capture so much. Chances that they’ll share videos of themselves posing in front of a plate of french fries or devouring a milkshake are far slimmer because it doesn’t fit the online persona they’re trying to sell. But it doesn’t mean they’re not doing that when the camera is turned off.
We can never truly know what anyone’s doing when the camera is turned off. Just make assumptions. Yet, there’s only so long a song and dance can last before you lose your voice and your legs grow weary.
As I’ve alluded to in past articles on self-optimization online, I don’t think there is a quick fix to the types of problems related to digital inauthenticity. Particularly in the realm of social media and body image, I believe a larger cultural shift needs to occur, specifically one related to beauty, gender, and fatphobia. In many senses, this cultural shift is slowly but surely underway, as advocates like Jayne Mattingly push back on myths about beauty.
On my own journey of digging through the slimy, murky insecurities that media helped facilitate, particularly in my tween years, a helpful place to start is reminding myself that social media is essentially one giant work of theatre. Writer Rayne Fisher-Quann put it well in this tweet:
Perhaps starting there will help us begin displacing our acute awareness with a more joyful recognition of the space we deserve to take up and the harmonious life we deserve to live - one that allows the “balance” see-saw to dip to its other valley often and happily.