In 2016, when Ashley Graham made history as the first plus-size model to grace the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue, it felt like a cultural shift. Body positivity had gone mainstream, with promises of a more inclusive future. Fast forward to 2025, and that promise seems broken. A new aesthetic has taken hold—one that trades diversity for thinness, empowerment for discipline. Welcome to the era of Ozempic Chic.
The term nods to the diabetes drug-turned-weight-loss miracle, Ozempic, which—alongside other GLP-1 injectables like Wegovy and Mounjaro—has become the face of a growing global obsession with rapid, medicalised weight loss. Once dubbed heroin chic in the 1990s, the modern revival is sharper, cleaner, and backed by pharmaceutical power.
What is Ozempic Chic?
Ozempic Chic is not just a look—it’s a lifestyle being sold, streamed, and celebrated across social media, and its consequences are raising alarms among health professionals, parents, and even former champions of the body positivity movement.
One of the faces of this new trend is influencer Liv Schmidt, a 23-year-old who amassed hundreds of thousands of followers by promoting extreme dieting tips under the banner of empowerment. Her content—praising three-bite meals and glorifying hunger—was banned from TikTok and restricted on Meta platforms for promoting disordered eating. Still, her influence lingers. Schmidt claims to earn $130,000 a month from her private diet club and is now marketing a $2,900 course called Skinni Société Secrets to a subscriber base eager for weight loss shortcuts and validation.
According to Daily Mail, critics say this is not just a passing phase, it is a commodification of insecurity. Abbey Sharp, a registered dietitian and host of the podcast Bite Back, warns that social media echo chambers like “Skinnytok” fuel body dysmorphia and normalise disordered eating. “Once you engage with just one of these videos, the algorithm floods your feed with more,” Sharp explains. “It’s a fast track to an unhealthy echo chamber that can have dire consequences.”
The consequences are indeed dire. Eating disorders remain one of the deadliest mental illnesses, with anorexia leading the statistics. Sharp says what’s most dangerous about this new wave of thinspiration is how it dresses up toxic behavior in the language of wellness and control. “You’re no longer ‘dieting,’ you’re ‘reclaiming your routine,’ or joining an exclusive community for women who are done spiraling.”
Ozempic Chic has redefined the parameters of beauty again—this time by making extreme thinness feel achievable, even aspirational, thanks to modern medicine. Hollywood isn’t immune. From Rebel Wilson and Oprah Winfrey to Meghan Trainor and Tori Spelling, celebrities have either admitted or been rumored to use these weight-loss injections. Even those who deny it, like Khloe Kardashian or Lizzo, are now under a microscope of speculation.
Meanwhile, the fashion world is quietly reversing its inclusivity efforts. According to Vogue Business, only 0.3% of models on recent runways were plus-size. The platform Tagwalk noted a 16% drop in the inclusion of ‘curve’ models in the past season alone.
Mallary Tenore Tarpley, journalism professor and author of the upcoming book SLIP: Life in the Middle of Eating Disorder Recovery, sees a troubling trend. “We’re back to worshiping thinness—but now it’s presented as empowerment, as choice, as a lifestyle you can buy into,” she says. “People are taping their mouths shut, labeling foods ‘bad,’ and glorifying the idea of hunger as strength.”
Even worse, this modern thinness economy is incredibly lucrative. Social media influencers make thousands by monetizing “confidence coaching” and “wellness” plans. Thinness is no longer just an aesthetic; it’s a brand.
Experts like Sharp point to two main catalysts: weight loss injectables and the co-opting of body positivity by diet and wellness culture. “Ozempic Chic offers a kind of moral superiority. It’s not just about being thin—it’s about doing it the ‘right’ way. And now, thanks to drugs, it’s easier to buy thinness than ever.”
Still, there’s hope that society can find a middle ground. Tarpley, also a mother of two, advocates for body neutrality—the belief that the body is not an ornament but an instrument. “Not everyone will love their bodies all the time,” she says. “But if we can teach the next generation that all bodies deserve respect, we might be able to break the cycle.”
For now, Ozempic Chic reigns supreme—a cultural moment built on injections, influencers, and the illusion of control. And as always, the cost is more than skin deep.
