Y2K Is In. Fatphobic Attitudes Are Out.

By Annie DeCoteau Vogelsang

From low-rise jeans to babydoll tees, there is no denying that the fashion trends of the early 2000s are back. In the past year, the ‘Y2K Aesthetic’ has spread like gaudy and glitzy wildfre, particularly among a Gen Z demographic. A generation recognized for its commitment to social justice, Gen Z has established itself as a progressive generation that celebrates all bodies; however, many fear this resurgence of micro shirts and mini skirts will lead to an inevitable return of the fatphobic attitudes that dominated the Y2K period. These worries are far from base less. When Y2K fashion frst emerged, pieces were designed with a particular (read: thin) body type in mind, large ly excluding any body that did not ft into this narrow mold. Meaghan Wray, a plus-size model and freelance journal ist who focuses on beauty, pop culture, and fat liberation, notes the Y2K aes thetic was “less about fashion and more about celebrating thin bodies. In fact, the body was the fashion.” Her memo ries of growing up in the early 2000s are saturated with feelings of body insecu rity and self-loathing, sentiments that have taken her decades to overcome.

While we have come a long way since Kate Moss boldly proclaimed that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” it is a valid fear that the resurgence of Y2K fashion could be a step backward for body positivity within the fashion industry. It poses the question: is it possible for this fashion aesthetic to cycle back sans its toxic connotations?

While a controversial article published by the New York Post, entitled “Bye Bye Booty: Heroine Chic is Back” seemingly suggests a grim answer, the immense backlash it garnered provides hope we have learned our lesson from the body terror that ruled the early 2000s. Alluding to the “Heroin Chic” aesthetic of the 2000s—which romanticized drugabused, emaciated frames as the ‘ideal body’ for Y2K fashion—the post made particularly large waves among body positive infuencers. While the article supposedly critiques a reemergence of ‘thinspo,’ many were outraged by its clickbait title and skewed reporting priorities, which saw a greater focus on the fact that Kim K’s famous BBL is no longer BBL-ing than truly breaking down any harmful implications. Through its performative attempt at ‘thinspo’ awareness, the article fetishizes the very is- sue it supposedly points out (but don’t worry, they linked an eating disorder helpline at the end so all better, right?)

When the article was frst posted, actress and activist Jameela Jamil reacted with a video captioned “OUR BODIES ARE NOT TRENDS.” The comment section of the original post was fooded with comments of a similar sentiment. Replies such as “no the f*ck it isn’t,” or “Can we not speak about women’s bodies as if they’re ‘fashion comebacks?’” give hope that while Y2K fashion is making a comeback, body acceptance advocacy continues to move forward.

Despite its misguided execution, the Post article does bring to light some relevant concerns pertaining to a Y2K resurgence. Even with the emerging prevalence of body diversity, an idealization of thinness continues to prevail within media and the fashion industry. Considering the historical implications of unrealistic 2000s body standards, it is certainly possible that a Y2K revival will only encourage the unhealthy ideals body advocates have worked so hard to quell.

In 2023, social media has added an entirely new layer to the conversation. If Y2K fashion is inherently linked to toxic messaging, the widespread use of various online platforms creates the poten- tial for magnifcation far beyond what would have been possible the frst time around. TikTok is already presenting worrying evidence of this very phenomenon; looking at hashtags #Y2K and #Y2KFashion, which have collectively accumulated no less than 31.5 billion views, it is hard not to notice the prevalence of primarily thin body types. In a digital age that affords unprecedented access to media, users are bombarded with images of edited models and infuencers, restrictive eating suggestions, and exposure to constant scrutiny: collectively, this creates the perfect climate for an increase in body insecurity and eating disorders. It is worrisome that social media will only exacerbate the already tumultuous relationship between Y2K fashion and the body standards that have been associated with it in the past.

So, is it time to ditch the low-rise jeans and accept that Y2K fashion is unavoidably toxic? Many fashion and body acceptance infuencers say not necessarily. In an article for Teen Vogue, Emily Zirimis writes “it’s not necessarily the clothes that were fatphobic and exclusive — it was, and continues to be, our attitudes about who was allowed to wear them.” She further explains that you can acknowledge the trend’s fatphobic origins and still participate in the fashion, stating that “we should participate in them as a small act of reclamation.”

Fashion Youtuber Karina Gomez takes a similar stance. In one video entitled Is it a ft or is she just skinny? she takes Y2K-inspired outfts worn by “skinny girls” and recreates them on a larger body. While shedding light on the challenges presented by a culture that has long favored a certain body type, Gomez simultaneously reclaims fashions orig- inally deemed ‘unfattering’ for plus sized individuals by creating fun outfts and deciding what she feels best in.

Ultimately, fashion—Y2K or not— should be about what makes you feel best—free from the dictation of arbitrary societal standards. The decision to opt into Y2K fashion is a completely personal one, but one thing remains clear: your body does not need to be a factor. No matter what latest fashion trend has cycled into popularity, your body should not cycle with it.

As a generation known for advocacy and inclusivity, Gen Z has an opportunity to reclaim Y2K fashion and prove it does not need to come with fatphobic strings attached. We have the power to call out toxic rhetoric within the fashion media industry and demand change for a more size-inclusive world. And, we have the agency to wear whatever we decide makes us feel best in our bodies. After all, you only live once, so why not use once to celebrate the body you’ve got?

GRAPHICS BY KATHARINE SCHMIDT

Two summers ago, I planted trees near Thunder Bay. This was an unprecedented decision for me: I am a vicious materialist and I wear a lot of pink. I had no experience in camping, nor engaging in demanding physical activity. Hold that image in your mind and place it in the backwoods of northern Ontario. Plus, during the height of the pandemic, I was spending most of my time inside, wallowing in the doom-andgloom. I was addicted to social media and deeply unhappy. Suffce to say, when I told people, they laughed in my face. And yet, motivated by the fact that my family members had placed actual monetary bets on how long I would last (the most generous being two weeks), I did not back out. Not letting my fear get the best of me was the best decision I ever made. In the pine and spruce forests of Ontario and Alberta, I re-learnt myself. Alone for hours, through scorching heat and freezing rain, I was forced to. The only images I had to rely on were the ones that lived with me in the wilderness — to let anxiety or self-hatred paint over those images was to fail. Frequently, planters will tell you it is impossible to capture the experience in words, describing it as both the most diffcult and best thing they have ever done. The best I can do is name it as the only moments in which I have been present. Firmly settled in myself, rooted to the ground, I was intimately connected to the earth around me. I opened my eyes to the feeling of hot summer air in my lungs and the taste of wild strawberries in my mouth. I painted the world over in pastel yellow and vibrant purple fowers. I took comfort in the way a little blue butterfy would fit past me whenever I felt like giving up. I wanted to give up so many times. Trekking up a vertical hillside with the crushing weight of two hundred baby trees belted to your hips will do that to you. So will the fear of being mauled by a bear, or impaled by a moose. Surrounded by dense forest, I often convinced myself I felt the yellow eyes of a murderous grizzly on my back. I was so focused on the imaginary gaze of some beast or the texture of the soil as I bent to plant my next tree that I forgot to care how I looked to myself, or, acres away from the closest human, to others. Caked in dirt, stripped of luxuries like a bedroom or a shower, my closest companion on the block was