Fat Talk

How can you raise, teach, or care for kids without making their bodies a moral report card? In Fat Talk, Virginia Sole-Smith argues that we won’t change childhood health—or kids’ happiness—until we dismantle the cultural machine that polices size, conflates thinness with virtue, and turns food into a battleground. She contends that “fat talk” is the transmission mechanism of anti-fat bias, the “obesity epidemic” was socially constructed to justify surveillance and profit, and weight-focused remedies often create the very harms we claim to prevent (disordered eating, medical avoidance, and chronic stress). To shift the paradigm, you must learn to separate weight from health, adopt weight-inclusive care, and build family, school, and sport cultures where dignity—not dieting—drives decisions.

What fat talk does—and why it matters

You start by noticing the small comments that do big cultural work. When Barbara praises Violet’s legs, then calls her own “short and chunky,” she’s not just self-deprecating; she’s teaching two girls that bodies live on a hierarchy. Sole-Smith shows fat talk operating in three common ways: self-denigration (“I hate my thighs”), comparative chatter (“your chin, my waist”), and “reassurances” to kids that actually encode stigma (“You’re not fat—you’re beautiful!”). The fix isn’t silence; it’s new scripts that treat “fat” as a neutral descriptor, validate feelings, and stop ranking bodies. (Note: activists’ reclamation of “fat” contrasts with the medicalized “obesity,” a term with moral baggage; person-first language can help but doesn’t erase bias if the framework still pathologizes size.)

How we built the “epidemic”

Sole-Smith traces how policy shifts and visuals created panic. The CDC’s color-shifting obesity maps (spearheaded by William Dietz) made incremental changes feel explosive, just as the 1998 NIH BMI cutoff changes reclassified millions overnight. The Anamarie Regino custody case put a fat toddler at the center of a blame narrative that played to racist and classist tropes. Behind the curtain were conflicts of interest and pharmaceutical markets eager for new “patients.” The takeaway for you: treat numbers and categories as choices, not destiny—ask who set the yardstick and who profits when more kids get labeled “at risk.”

Weight is not health—and stigma makes health worse

The book reframes weight as a noisy correlate, not a master key. BMI (born from Quetelet’s “Average Man”) doesn’t measure health; Katherine Flegal’s work even found lower mortality in the “overweight” category. Meanwhile, the experience of stigma—shame, avoidance of care, chronic stress—predicts harm regardless of BMI. Lizzy’s diabetes story proves the point: weight loss drew praise while her unmanaged illness worsened. Weight-inclusive care (HAES-informed) asks clinicians to attend to behaviors, access, and social determinants without prescribing weight loss as a first-line intervention.

Diets and “healthy plans” that hurt

Restriction, even when disguised as “lifestyle change,” primes kids for obsession. Winter’s mother Elise offered a “balanced” plan of rice cakes and strict portions; Winter paired it with intense exercise and slid into anorexia. Commercial tools like Kurbo label foods with traffic lights and coach kids to monitor themselves—approaches that look benign but function like diets. Longitudinal evidence (e.g., Project EAT) shows dieting predicts later disordered eating and weight gain. You can break the cycle with Ellyn Satter’s Division of Responsibility (parents decide what/when/where; kids decide whether/how much), responsive feeding, and normalization of treats (sugar lockboxes backfire by creating scarcity and secrecy).

Privilege and the institutions kids move through

Thin privilege gives some kids easier access to clothing, seats, and unbiased attention from teachers and doctors. Jessica’s sons Jacob (thin) and Sawyer (larger-bodied) live this difference daily—one moves invisibly, the other gets policed. Schools embed bias through curricular tools (HECAT), calorie-tracking assignments (Katie’s strength class), BMI “report cards” (Arkansas), and teacher microaggressions. Sports pile on with aesthetic ideals that reward “looking the part,” producing RED-S, injuries, and lost joy (see Mary Cain’s revelations and Natalie’s college running injuries). Social media amplifies all of it, feeding kids ever-more-extreme “fitspo,” while early puberty is too often treated as a weight problem instead of a complex biological and social event (Frank Biro’s research; Josie’s story of shame and adultification).

What you can do—scripts and systems

Sole-Smith arms you with language and levers. With doctors, request blind weigh-ins and ask, “How would you treat a thin patient with these symptoms?” With teachers, opt out of calorie logs and BMI screenings and ask for alternative assignments. With coaches, ask about uniforms, snack policies, and whether weight drives advancement. With kids, name fatphobia as wrong, teach thin kids about privilege and allyship, and tell fat kids you trust their bodies. The throughline: change the conversation so kids learn that health is about care, access, and joy in their bodies—not about shrinking to fit someone else’s map.

(Context: This approach aligns with weight-neutral scholars and clinicians across pediatrics, psychology, and public health; it pushes back against BMI-first paradigms while still allowing for medical nuance when weight intersects with specific conditions.)

Sole-Smith defines “fat talk” as the social currency that keeps anti-fat bias circulating. You hear it in self-putdowns (“I hate my thighs”), comparative assessments (“Your chin—my waist”), and especially in adult “reassurance” to kids that equates thinness with beauty (“You’re not fat—you’re beautiful”). The opening vignette—Barbara praising Violet’s legs, then calling her own “short and chunky”—shows how even affectionate talk ranks bodies. If you’re a caregiver, this is where the work begins: words teach kids which bodies get praise, pity, or panic.

Language choices and what they teach

You face a language dilemma: researchers may say “weight bias,” clinicians often say “person with obesity,” and activists reclaim “fat” as a neutral descriptor (sometimes with size distinctions like “small fat,” “midfat,” “superfat”). The book explains why “obesity” carries moral judgment (Latin root obesus: “having eaten oneself fat”) and how euphemisms rarely reduce harm. The more honest route is context-based: use the language a person chooses for themselves; treat “fat” neutrally if the person does; avoid making “fat” the worst thing you can be. When a child says, “Am I fat?” resist the reflex to deny. Ask, “Is ‘fat’ something you’re worried about right now?” and explore what they’ve heard at school or online.

Scripts that de-escalate shame

Sole-Smith offers practical lines you can use today. For kids: “All bodies are different; I trust your body,” and “People learn mean ideas about bodies—that’s about them, not you.” For adults mid-meal: “We’re avoiding diet talk around the kids—let’s talk about that recipe instead.” For doctors: “We prefer blind weights,” or “Please discuss weight privately and focus on behaviors we can change.” For teachers: “I’m opting my child out of calorie tracking; can you provide an alternative?” Repeated calmly, these scripts rewire expectations: you’re modeling that dignity is non-negotiable and body ranking is off the table.

Reassurance without euphemism

When a child is teased, your job is not to overcorrect with “You’re perfect!” (which can feel dismissive) but to validate and problem-solve. Try: “I’m so sorry that happened. It’s not okay for people to comment on bodies. How can we make school feel safer?” If your child is thin, fold in lessons on thin privilege: “You may not get those comments, but others do; we speak up and ask for fair rules.” If your child is fat, name the word if they use it and pair it with unconditional support: “Yes, your body is fat, and fat people deserve the same respect and opportunities as anyone else.”

Resetting family norms

Family culture changes with repeated small moves. Ban casual body critiques (of yourself and others). Stop “earning” dessert via exercise; normalize treats without tallying. Don’t weigh kids at home or comment on their portions. Replace scale metrics with questions about sleep, energy, joy in movement, and how mealtimes feel. If co-parents or grandparents cling to diet scripts, set clear boundaries (“no diet talk here”) and offer context instead of combat (“We grew up hearing this, but we’re trying something different for the kids’ mental health”).

Why scripts beat silence

Silence leaves diet culture as the default curriculum. Scripts give you a third way between confrontation and complicity: you name harm without shaming the person, you redirect without debate, and you center the child’s psychological safety. Over time, you change what counts as “normal”—and kids learn to do the same with peers, teachers, and clinicians. (Note: This mirrors restorative-communication approaches in anti-bias education; the goal isn’t to win an argument, but to protect dignity and shift norms.)

Sole-Smith maps how the childhood “obesity epidemic” became a cultural juggernaut—part science, part storytelling, and part commercial strategy. The point isn’t to deny that bodies changed over time; it’s to show how measurement choices, visuals, and incentives amplified worry into policy and punishment. When you understand the construction, you stop accepting panic as proof and start asking better questions about what actually helps kids.

Maps, cutoffs, and markets

At the CDC, William Dietz popularized state maps that shifted colors from green to red over the years. Those visuals implied contagion and urgency, even though they reflected statistical thresholds more than biological tipping points. Around the same time, the NIH in 1998 lowered BMI cutoffs, instantly reclassifying millions of adults as “overweight” or “obese.” That categorical expansion didn’t change bodies overnight—but it changed headlines, insurance codes, and markets for pharmaceuticals (Redux, Meridia, and later weight-loss drugs). Funding networks (e.g., IOTF ties, Novo Nordisk relationships) helped frame the problem in ways compatible with commercial solutions.

A toddler becomes a symbol

The 2001 Anamarie Regino case—where New Mexico officials removed a fat four-year-old from her parents—crystallized the moral frame: a large body signifies parental failure requiring state intervention. Even sympathetic coverage (Lisa Belkin’s New York Times article) reinforced the notion that a child’s size is an emergency. Sole-Smith shows how racism and classism inflected such narratives, with immigrant and Black mothers often portrayed as neglectful or indulgent, even when the evidence was ambiguous or medical complexity went unexplored.

Numbers with agendas

Statistics are not neutral. They’re built on assumptions (Quetelet’s “Average Man” was never a health tool), cohorts (historically whiter and thinner), and thresholds chosen for convenience or coverage rather than clinical nuance. The infamous “300,000 deaths” talking point, long used to dramatize obesity risk, depends on attribution models that don’t capture confounders like stigma, access to care, or physical activity independent of weight. Katherine Flegal’s meta-analyses complicated the mortality story—her work faced professional backlash that revealed how threatened the paradigm was.

Who benefits, who pays

Labeling more kids “at risk” expands markets (drugs, diets, devices) and justifies surveillance (BMI screenings, school letters). The costs fall on families—especially mothers—who get blamed for children’s size and pushed toward restrictive feeding that raises disordered-eating risk. In schools, weight panic spawns assignments like calorie logging (Katie’s strength class) and screenings that research shows don’t reduce obesity but do raise shame (Arkansas). The lesson for you: if a policy increases stigma without clear long-term health benefits, it’s likely serving metrics and markets, not children.

How to read the room—and the data

When confronted with alarming numbers or visuals, ask: What was this tool built to measure? Who set the cutoff and why? What outcomes matter (well-being, access, disordered-eating rates), and are they tracked? If a program touts short-term weight change without monitoring psychological harm, that’s a red flag. Use the same skepticism you’d bring to any high-stakes decision: follow the incentives, look for conflicts, and center the lived experiences of kids like Anamarie—who bear the brunt when policy reduces bodies to color-coded maps.

(Note: This critique parallels public-health historians who caution against “moral panics” that prioritize spectacle over structural fixes; see also critiques of the War on Drugs for similar dynamics of surveillance and blame.)

Sole-Smith’s clinical argument is simple and radical: stop using weight as the first proxy for health, especially in kids. Instead, treat weight as one data point among many, and account for the harms of stigma itself. This reframing opens the door to weight-inclusive care—approaches that focus on behaviors, access, and psychological safety regardless of whether weight changes.

Why BMI misleads

BMI began as a population statistic, not a diagnostic. It can’t tell you about body composition, puberty stage, genetics, or social context. Shifts in BMI cutoffs (like 1998’s) reshape prevalence on paper without changing anyone’s health. Katherine Flegal’s analyses showed lower mortality among those in the “overweight” category, provoking backlash drenched in bias rather than scientific debate. The takeaway: BMI is blunt, malleable, and often misapplied—especially to growing children.

Genetics, epigenetics, and context

Weight variance is highly heritable (estimates of 60–80%), with epigenetic effects shaped by stress and scarcity (e.g., Dutch famine studies). Environment matters too: food access, safe spaces for movement, endocrine-disrupting chemicals, and racism all affect bodies. The cliché “genetics loads the gun; environment pulls the trigger” is imperfect but useful—it steers you away from blaming parents and toward systemic drivers.

Stigma is a health risk

Experiencing weight stigma correlates with worse cardiometabolic markers, independent of BMI. Shamed patients delay care, skip preventive screenings, and endure chronic stress (cortisol dysregulation). Lizzy’s diabetes story shows how praise for weight loss can mask deteriorating health. In pediatrics, careless BMI talk seeds disordered eating; teens often cite a clinician’s comment as the trigger for restriction or bingeing. You protect health by protecting dignity.

What weight-inclusive care looks like

Clinicians like Andrea Westby (family medicine) and Dr. Beth Nathan (pediatrics) model how to shift. Ask permission before discussing weight. Offer blind weigh-ins or weigh only when necessary (med dosing, rapid unexplained change). Screen for eating disorders at any BMI. Focus on sleep, stress, food access, enjoyable movement, and symptom relief. If a clinician prescribes weight loss as a default, ask, “How would you treat a thin patient with these symptoms?” (Ragen Chastain and Dr. Louise Metz popularize this script.)

Measuring what matters

Shifting from weight to health behaviors changes success metrics: fewer missed appointments, improved mental health, stronger therapeutic alliances, and skill-building around food and movement that kids can sustain. You may still track growth curves for context, but you narrate them neutrally and privately, avoiding moral commentary. In research and quality improvement, include stigma as a variable and report potential harms alongside benefits.

(Note: HAES-aligned care doesn’t deny that weight can intersect with conditions like sleep apnea; it objects to universal prescriptions that ignore heterogeneity and the iatrogenic effects of shame.)

Family feeding is where kids learn whether food is friend or foe. Sole-Smith pairs cautionary tales (Winter and Elise; Julie and Katie; Dana and Harry’s lockbox) with responsive alternatives rooted in Ellyn Satter’s Division of Responsibility (DOR). The message for you: structure beats control; permission beats policing; and restriction—no matter how it’s branded—often breeds the very problems you’re trying to avoid.

How restriction backfires

Elise’s “balanced” plan for Winter (strict portions, rice cakes) felt protective but, paired with intense exercise, cascaded into anorexia. Julie taught Katie calorie counting in the name of “health,” and Katie slid into days of not eating. Programs like Kurbo (owned by WW) add a sheen of coaching and “green/yellow/red” foods, but they operationalize restriction in kids’ hands without robust screening for eating disorders or long-term harm. Longitudinal research (Project EAT) is clear: adolescent dieting predicts later disordered eating and weight gain; restriction plants the seeds for both bingeing and deeper restriction.

The sugar panic, debunked

Parents fear sugar like it’s a moral hazard. But controlled trials (e.g., the 1994 Vanderbilt study) don’t support the “sugar high” narrative. Dana and Harry locked treats to keep their daughters “healthy,” but the lockbox taught secrecy and scarcity; Ella hoarded and Ava internalized rigid rules. Sole-Smith also cautions against “sugar addiction” talk: dopamine responses exist, but much apparent addiction reflects prior restriction and environmental cues, not sugar’s innate pull.

Division of Responsibility (DOR), with nuance

DOR sets a clean boundary: caregivers decide what/when/where; kids decide whether/how much. Responsive feeding adds warmth and attunement—meeting emotional needs alongside hunger. It works when you hold predictable meals and snacks, offer variety, and accept that kids’ appetites and preferences ebb and flow. The author’s re-feeding of Violet after medical trauma shows how removing pressure and restoring autonomy can repair food relationships. Still, DOR fails if you turn it into an Instagram-perfect rulebook; trauma, scarcity, neurodivergence, or ARFID may require adaptations (more frequent snacks, different textures, extra supervision).

Practical family shifts

- Normalize all foods. Serve dessert with meals sometimes so it’s not the prize at the end of a moral test. Avoid leverage (“three bites for dessert”).
- Add structure, not surveillance. Predictable mealtimes reduce frantic grazing; sitting together reduces mindless eating without policing plates.
- Check your cues. If a child sneaks food, read it as a restriction signal, not a character flaw; increase availability and reduce labeling instead of locking cabinets.
- Watch your words. No “good” vs. “bad” foods; use neutral descriptors and focus on satisfaction, energy, and how foods make bodies feel.

When DOR yields to FBT—and back again

In severe eating disorders, Family-Based Treatment (FBT) temporarily hands feeding control to parents to restore medical stability. Kenneth’s family used FBT when Francine required inpatient care; once stable, they returned to neutral, celebratory meals (even Thanksgiving dessert) to rebuild trust and autonomy. Your compass: use control only to save a life, then relinquish it to restore a relationship.

(Note: This aligns with evidence-based ED care while preserving DOR’s long-term goal—self-regulation rooted in trust, not fear.)

Thin kids aren’t spared body anxiety, but they move through the world with fewer barriers. Sole-Smith uses thin privilege to explain everyday disparities—who finds a uniform that fits, who breezes past a coach’s scrutiny, who avoids lectures at the doctor. Layer onto this the power of schools and clinics to enforce norms, and you see why single-family fixes aren’t enough. You need institutional change.

What thin privilege looks like to kids

In Jessica’s home, Jacob (thin) can weaponize “fat” in sibling fights with fewer consequences, while Sawyer (larger-bodied) is hypervisible. In class, desks with attached chairs don’t fit everyone; PE uniforms stop at certain sizes; teachers often assume fat students are less capable. Medical visits differ, too: thin kids get curiosity; fat kids get lectures. Sole-Smith notes intersectionality: privileges and penalties stack (race, class, gender). Michelle Obama navigated racist stereotypes by embodying a thin, athletic ideal while promoting policies that sometimes stigmatized poor communities—a reminder that public health, politics, and image are entangled.

Schools as diet-culture amplifiers

Diet culture shows up in curricula (CDC’s HECAT emphasizing weight evaluation), assignments (food logs, macro counting), and media (Super Size Me screenings). Katie’s strength class required calorie and macro tracking; the result was predictable restriction and anxiety. State BMI screenings and “report cards” (e.g., Arkansas) didn’t lower obesity but did increase shame and worry (Hannah Thompson’s research). Teacher microaggressions—like bragging about cutting carbs to second graders—normalize restriction.

Practical advocacy that works

- Opt out. You can refuse BMI screenings and calorie-tracking assignments and request alternative work (templates via Sunny Side Up Nutrition).
- Change curricula. Dietitian Sarah Ganginis helped Maryland shift standards away from weight objectives toward inclusive nutrition education and food literacy (culture, preparation, access).
- Make inclusivity concrete. Ensure uniforms in extended sizes, provide flexible seating, and reframe FitnessGram to emphasize skills and participation, not rankings.
- Diversify stories. Add books and posters with fat protagonists; kids notice who gets to be the hero.

Clinics as gatekeepers of dignity

Provider training increases anti-fat bias over time; patients in larger bodies get less rapport and more weight-first advice. Weight-inclusive clinics ask permission before discussing weight, offer blind weigh-ins, and screen for EDs at every BMI. If you hear “lose weight” as the only plan, use the script: “How would you treat a thin patient with these symptoms?” Then pivot to behaviors and access. When institutions change scripts, families don’t have to fight the current alone.

(Note: Schools and clinics are leverage points; improving these environments can buffer harms even when broader culture remains diet-obsessed.)

Men are under-discussed in body-image conversations, yet masculine norms quietly shape diet culture at home, in gyms, and on teams. Sole-Smith shows how performance frames—strength, productivity, discipline—grant men permission to obsess about bodies without calling it vanity. That framing hides harm, especially in youth sports built to reward “looking the part.” If you parent boys or coach, this lens helps you spot risk early.

How male diet culture hides in plain sight

Cody learned ritualized toughness (chewing tobacco to make weight, beer before school), then later channeled fear about labs into meticulous meal prep and Apple Watch metrics—habits that yielded weight loss but spawned compulsive rules. Matt discovered that getting thinner unlocked sexual and social validation; the payoff entrenched restriction and exercise anxiety. Because the behaviors read as “training,” they often draw praise, not concern. (Compare with research on muscle dysmorphia and compulsive exercise—male-coded problems that evade detection.)

Fathers at the table

Many dads default to fixing over feeling. Cody’s response to Zoe’s depression and disordered eating was a meal plan—logistics as love—but Zoe needed presence more than protocols. Kenneth modeled another path during Family-Based Treatment (FBT): he sat, played board games, and tolerated discomfort. If you’re a father, your small, steady participation—without policing—can lower a child’s anxiety around food more than any spreadsheet ever could.

Youth sports: when movement becomes a body project

Aesthetic sports (gymnastics, dance, distance running) often reward thinness as much as skill. Mary Cain’s account of the Nike Oregon Project exposed coaching that prized weight loss over health, resulting in amenorrhea and fractures (RED-S). Natalie’s college team normalized restriction until injuries mounted; Camille left gymnastics when puberty made “the part” harder to inhabit. Coaches sometimes wave the “it’s physics” flag to justify weight control, but as Christy Greenleaf notes, if systems never let different bodies excel, you’ll never know who could. Some sports legitimately use weight classes (wrestling), but blanket body prescriptions harm far more kids than they help.

Protecting joy in movement

- Ask coaches explicit questions: Are weigh-ins used? Are there uniform sizes for all athletes? How are snacks handled?
- Avoid early specialization. Encourage variety to reduce injury and expand identity beyond one “athlete body.”
- Teach boundaries. Role-play how kids can respond to body comments (“I don’t discuss my weight; let’s talk training goals”) and when to loop in a parent.
- Redefine success. Emphasize skills, teamwork, and fun—metrics that remain meaningful across body sizes and puberty shifts.

(Note: This reframing echoes athlete-wellness movements (e.g., #MeToo in sport, SafeSport) that put power and safety over performance-at-any-cost.)

Puberty is a biological transformation that culture treats like a crisis—especially when it arrives “early.” Sole-Smith asks you to step back from weight-blame and see the fuller picture: changing averages, environmental exposures, stress, and the social harms of adultifying kids. Your response can either amplify shame or build resilience.

What the research actually says

Pediatrician-researcher Frank Biro documents trends toward earlier breast development and the statistical association with higher BMI. But correlation isn’t causation. The more constructive question is, “Why has BMI gone up?” which pulls in environment (endocrine-disrupting chemicals), stress (cortisol from family turmoil), and inequities (food access, safe play spaces). Josie’s story illustrates this complexity: family stress, inconsistent feeding at her father’s home, and secrecy around food intersected with early development.

The social cost of early change

When a nine-year-old grows breasts, adults often project sexual maturity. Audrey recalls a grandmother calling a child “sexy” at a reunion—an example of adultification that disproportionately targets Black girls (see Georgetown research cited in the book). The result is surveillance, dress-code policing, and victim-blaming, which compound shame. Josie internalized fear and later developed disordered eating; medical advice that fixated on BMI missed the distress behind the behavior.

Clinical pitfalls and better pathways

Reflexive diet prescriptions can destabilize growth and exacerbate hormonal issues. A better workup screens for eating disorders and psychosocial stressors, explores environmental exposures, and supports healthy routines (sleep, meals, movement for enjoyment). Conversations happen privately, with neutral language and practical tools (bras, pads, pain management), not moral lectures about “control.” When weight changes occur, narrate them neutrally—contextualize growth spurts and maturation rather than pathologizing shape.

How to support a child

- Normalize biology. Explain menstruation and breast development as ordinary body changes, not milestones of “readiness” for adult scrutiny.
- Provide gear and privacy. Make supplies available without fanfare; ask what would make school days easier.
- Watch for secrecy and stress. If you see hiding food or body preoccupation, screen for disordered eating and consider therapy.
- Confront adultification. Challenge dress codes that target developing kids; teach kids how to set boundaries and ask adults for help.

(Note: Historical puberty norms were set on predominantly white, thinner cohorts; labeling girls of color as “early” often reflects bias more than pathology.)

Social platforms aren’t neutral mirrors; they’re engines that monetize your attention and, in the process, amplify diet culture. Sole-Smith shows how influencers, algorithms, and teen vulnerabilities combine to make “fitspo” and “What I Eat In A Day” content feel both intimate and aspirational—precisely the mix that fuels comparison and control.

Influencer confessionals and the aesthetics of recovery

Cassey Ho turned a bikini-competition spiral into content, confessing while still promoting “clean eating” and sculpting routines. That blend can normalize disordered practices even under a recovery banner; viewers learn to reproduce the look of “health” (meal-prep shots, “waist-whittler” moves) without addressing obsession. Sierra, meanwhile, learned to re-shoot workouts until her body looked acceptable—self-objectification operationalized.

Algorithms that escalate

Like or linger on a diet post, and the feed serves more—often more extreme—content. Internal documents (WSJ reporting on Meta) acknowledge harm to teen girls’ body image. TikTok’s virality compounds the issue with fast-moving “challenges” and beauty filters. The architecture is the same across platforms: engagement begets intensity.

Practical digital hygiene

- Curate aggressively. Unfollow accounts that trigger “compare-and-quit” feelings; follow body-neutral or body-positive creators (Fardouly’s experiments suggest improved body satisfaction with such feeds).
- Teach media literacy. Name sponsored posts, image editing, and highlight reels; ask, “What’s this creator selling—an identity, a product, or both?”
- Create breaks and buffers. Try 72-hour app hiatuses (Kite’s suggestion) to reset perception; use device-free meals and bedtimes.
- Co-view and converse. With teens, scroll together and discuss why the algorithm is showing certain content and how it makes them feel.

No app is a cure

BeReal tries to force authenticity, but it still requires self-presentation. The solution isn’t a platform swap—it’s literacy and boundaries. In Sierra’s recovery, removing the phone in residential care interrupted compulsive comparison; returning with a curated feed made social media livable again. Your goal isn’t abstinence; it’s agency.

(Note: Media-literacy approaches echo successful school programs that reduce the impact of advertising and stereotype messaging; the same skills buffer diet culture.)