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Existing on the internet is kinda a weird concept. All of your body changes documented, words immortalized, and passing feelings preserved for public consumption. And if you eventually build a following, all of these things will be wide open for public commentary. There are countless examples of this playing out online, but this past weekend, lifestyle and fashion creator Remi Bader became the prime example of internet infamy and immortality.
For what it’s worth, there’s always been debate about what kind of creator Remi actually is. Many labeled her as part of the body positivity movement, a movement with countless factions and distinctions that never seem to agree on a unified goal. But Remi never claimed to be a body positivity advocate. Sure, she cared about things that aligned with body positivity, like wanting all bodies to be seen as beautiful. But she never positioned herself as a leader in the space.
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I think Remi’s “realistic” hauls played a huge role in why people assigned her that label. Her videos often showed her trying on clothes from stores that didn’t cater to plus-size bodies, and people interpreted that as a statement—a middle finger to brands that excluded fat people. It felt like activism, even if that wasn’t her intent. The internet loves assigning fat creators the role of body positivity warriors, as if documenting one part of a lived experience automatically turns someone into an activist. Any fat person commenting on any element of body positivity is assumed to be part of the movement. And with Remi’s popularity rising during the pandemic, when there were fewer plus-size creators on TikTok and fewer people to connect with, that parasocial attachment became even stronger.
That’s kinda how platforms work. Right place, right time. Remi’s content was relatable and engaging at a time when everyone was going through massive life changes. It also happened to be perfectly primed for engagement—intentionally or not, her content made an extreme out of a situation that resonated with a lot of people. Grade-A engagement bait. And to some extent, she became a caricature of fat people, amplifying her struggles for relatability and virality.
But parasocial relationships are a dangerous game. People feel emotionally connected to creators they’ve never met, projecting their own ideals and expectations onto them. And when creators deviate from those expectations—when they show they’re just people, evolving and figuring shit out like the rest of us, or maybe aren’t great people at all—audiences feel betrayed. I think we’re all at fault for this. Audiences aren’t realistic about the curated nature of social media or the personhood of creators. And creators, for their part, aren’t always honest or transparent and often fail to set boundaries.
For what it’s worth, I think some of the changes people are talking about aren’t just about her body — they’re about wealth. It’s a tale as old as time for any influencer who experiences success. Remi’s current content isn’t exactly the same as when she started. She’s no longer doing “realistic” Free People or Zara hauls, showcasing modestly priced fast fashion that felt accessible to her audience. Instead, she’s appearing at fashion week events for Tory Burch, attending the CFDA Awards, and even showing up at the Academy and Grammy events. Her vacations are no longer relatable getaways but luxury escapes that signal a shift in class performance.
And honestly? I think that shift is part of what’s fueling the backlash. Audiences aren’t just reacting to Remi’s body changes — they’re responding to a broader transformation in her content and lifestyle. When creators move from relatable to aspirational, it changes the dynamics of their relationship with their audience. Remi’s outward performance of class has evolved significantly, and while that’s a natural part of career growth, it also complicates how audiences perceive her authenticity.
Which brings us to Remi’s recent reveal. After months of speculation and comment moderation, Remi finally addressed her weight loss and bariatric surgery on Khloé Kardashian’s podcast, Khloé in Wonderland. Before this, she had allegedly been deleting comments that speculated about weight loss surgery or medications like Ozempic. And when she finally spoke about her journey—including her struggle with binge eating disorder, her experience with outpatient treatment using Health at Every Size (HAES) methodologies, and her eventual decision to undergo a SADI (Single Anastomosis Duodenal-Ileal Switch) surgery—the internet lost its fucking mind. As it always does when weight is involved.
A lot of people felt deceived. Some were upset that she hadn’t been transparent about her method of weight loss, arguing that she created an inauthentic version of her journey by only discussing “lifestyle changes.” Others felt like Remi had abandoned body positivity and was no longer relatable. But that’s the thing—was she ever supposed to be?
Remi was always a plus-size fashion creator. But if we’re being real, she was a hauler, a consumption creator. She didn’t focus on styling or pushing fashion boundaries. Her popularity stemmed from “realistic” hauls that resonated with her audience. And while that resonated with many, I always felt disconnected from Remi’s content. It felt like she was making a spectacle of plus-size bodies for engagement, humiliating herself for views while reinforcing a narrative of struggle for fat people. Yet, because of her size, people projected body positivity onto her. They assigned her a role she never claimed, and when she didn’t perform it perfectly or in the way they wanted, they were quick to revoke their support.
And this is where things get complicated. This version of body positivity demands that creators have an opinion on everything whether they want to or not. It forces them to engage with discourse they might not feel ready to take on, while also facing accusations of being problematic if they don’t perform in the expected way. I became deeply disillusioned with body positivity for similar reasons. At some point, the rhetoric from fat activists became too extreme—claiming that all intentional weight loss was inherently fatphobic. People started centering themselves in other people’s lives, deciding that anyone choosing to lose weight, for whatever reason, was betraying the movement and, by proxy, betraying them.
I’ve thought a lot about this because I’ve been in a similar place. I’ve strayed away from talking about body and fat positivity after making it part of my content for some time. It became far too exhausting. I was also dealing with my own health issues. When I turned 28, I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, stopped having my period for 18 months, and had non-cancerous tumors in my uterus that required surgery. The month between diagnosis, surgery, and waiting to see if my tumors were cancerous was one of the longest, most emotional periods of my life. I cried. A lot. My entire nervous system was a wreck, and I felt like an idiot for not taking my health more seriously. I’d spent so much time focusing on how my appearance was perceived because of my fatness that I ignored what was happening inside my body. And I was scared. I was scared I might not be able to have children one day, which was something I hadn’t even fully processed wanting yet.
So, I had to make a change. I ended up using a GLP-1 and making lifestyle changes that resulted in a (to me) substantial amount of weight loss. I worked with a dietitian, a weight loss specialist, my primary care provider, and, of course, a therapist to navigate this process. I didn’t talk about it publicly for a long time. I needed time to process everything before I could even think about sharing it. And honestly? I was terrified of how people would react. The internet is mean, people are critical, and I didn’t feel like dealing with the echo chamber of fat liberation because, respectfully, it’s a very hard group to have productive conversations with.
Which is why I understood where Remi was coming from when she said she needed time to process her own experience before sharing it. In her interview with Khloé, she mentioned that she wasn’t sure about the outcomes and didn’t want to feel responsible for influencing others before she fully understood her own journey. That’s a completely valid boundary. Processing something as big as surgery takes time, and creators shouldn’t be forced to share vulnerable parts of their lives before they’re ready—especially when we’ve seen time and time again how processing things in real time can go horribly wrong.
The internet seems to confuse authenticity with constant access. People expect creators to think out loud, to spill their guts in real time as if that’s the only way to be real. But sometimes, the most authentic thing you can do is sit with something before deciding what parts of your story deserve to be public. Authenticity can come in reflection. It’s not deception—it’s self-preservation.
But even when creators navigate these decisions carefully, the internet’s expectations often remain impossible to meet. I couldn’t help but think about Lucy Dacus and the backlash she faced after her recent music video. People were upset about the lack of fat representation—completely ignoring the fact that Lucy herself has been torn apart for her size. It feels like we’ve built this Noah’s Ark of marginalized identities where everyone has to be perfectly represented, and if the quota isn’t met, the project (and the person) is disposable.
We aren’t satisfied with marginal gains. If we move the needle even a little, it’s never enough. And it’s exhausting to witness. Lucy’s situation is a perfect example of how these expectations flatten nuance. The same people who criticize creators for not being inclusive enough often overlook the lived experiences of the creators themselves. It’s the same pattern we see over and over again: demanding ideological purity while ignoring the complexity of individual experiences.
Marginalized creators, especially plus-size and fat creators, have even more moral purity projected onto them. They’re expected to be perfectly progressive, perfectly aligned with whatever the internet’s current stance is, and perfectly articulate about it at all times. It’s exhausting. There’s no room for nuance or growth without risking backlash. The internet flattens people, reducing them to a set of opinions that must be consistent and progressive—or else.
The demand for ideological perfection feels especially ironic coming from the body positivity movement, which was built on rejecting the idea of perfection in the first place. The movement was supposed to challenge extreme beauty standards and champion bodies that were deemed imperfect. But now, we’re seeing the same rigidity applied to creators, who are expected to be infallible icons of inclusivity and progress. And I’m not saying creators shouldn’t be held accountable—they should. But accountability can exist without cruelty. Disagreement doesn’t have to lead to disposability.
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Remi’s decision to talk about her surgery on Khloé Kardashian’s podcast was a strategic move, and I think that’s worth unpacking. Khloé is one of the few people who has experienced relentless public scrutiny about her body. People forget that before she became the poster child for unattainable beauty standards, Khloé was labeled the “fat, ugly sister.” I think Remi saw an opportunity to frame her story through a lens of empathy. And let’s be real, aligning yourself with the Kardashians still holds a lot of cultural weight. Just ask Hulu. The timing of the Self article that followed wasn’t a coincidence either. That’s just how PR works.
But the backlash Remi faced wasn’t just about her. It was a prime example of the internet’s obsession with moral purity and the flattening of nuance. The conversation was never just about Remi—it was also about audiences performing outrage, signaling their virtue, and feeding an algorithm that thrives on controversy. In the attention economy, calling someone out often builds your own audience. I’m skeptical of creators who piggyback on these moments to grow their platforms while claiming it’s all “for the good of the community.” Let’s not pretend that attention isn’t a currency here. And yeah, I’m part of that equation.
As a retired sex worker who made a lot of fat fetish content, I’m no stranger to having my body scrutinized and speculated about online. Public commentary around your body—especially when you’re trying to process your own feelings about it—can give you a complex. It magnifies your insecurities and makes it nearly impossible to separate your own thoughts from public opinion. I know how painful it is to read comments that echo the worst things you already believe about yourself, especially on anonymous forums.
At the end of the day, none of us have any control over what Remi does. We only have control over our own reactions and the parasocial relationships we create. And we need to be more accountable for those relationships. Audiences should interrogate their expectations—of creators and of the internet itself. The only constant in life, especially online, is change. There are ways to have conversations with and about creators while still holding space for nuance and empathy.
Maybe this moment signals a deeper entrenchment in our echo chambers. Or maybe it’s a wake-up call to rethink how we engage with creators. Either way, the internet isn’t going to stop moving. The question is whether we can learn to move with it—or if we’ll keep demanding perfection from imperfect people.
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