Smashing the SWAG Stereotype: Why We Need Spaces for All to Land
Sadly, the first time I realized the SWAG — skinny, white, affluent, girls — eating disorder stereotype did not reflect reality was not when I was actively struggling. It was years later when I was already far into my own eating disorder recovery and came across another man on social media who was open about his own struggle.
When I was in the depths of anorexia, I never once thought I had an eating disorder. Not even for a moment. My struggles centered more around excessive exercise, with food playing a role, but often feeling secondary to the intense urge to control my body through movement. Because my eating disorder revolved largely around exercise, I never questioned whether what I was doing was disordered. In fact, I was praised for it.
My increased movement, changing body, and discipline were reinforced by society. Friends, family, and culture celebrated what they saw as dedication and health. There were no outward red flags. Very little concern. No reason for me to believe I was struggling with something serious. Because I did not fit the image of who we believe gets eating disorders, it never crossed my mind that I could be one of them.
If you were to ask someone unfamiliar with eating disorders, “Who gets eating disorders?” I imagine the response would come quickly. White. Skinny. Teen girls. Women. This is the story we have been told over and over again.
I am currently a student studying to become an eating disorder therapist, and even within my coursework, this false narrative shows up repeatedly. Most textbooks frame eating disorders as something that primarily affects women. The images used and the case examples reinforce the same narrow picture.
There is very little dialogue about men or other marginalized identities. When these stories are missing, it quietly shapes who we notice and who we overlook.
That said, I do believe there is hope.
Recently, I went back to the middle school where I taught for six years and led seventh grade health classes through a lesson on eating disorders. When I asked the students, “Who do you think can develop an eating disorder?” they responded immediately. Anyone.
That answer stayed with me. It made me wonder whether younger generations are being exposed to more diverse and accurate narratives. Media may be playing a role. One example that stands out is Netflix’s Heartstopper (CW: eating disorder behaviors), where a recent season centers on a teenage boy navigating an eating disorder. As someone who is eight years into recovery, seeing that story unfold was powerful. It brought up grief for the version of myself who never saw his experience reflected anywhere. It also gave me hope that boys and men watching the show might recognize themselves and realize that what they are struggling with is real and deserving of help.
Representation matters because it helps people see themselves. It gives language to experiences that often go unnamed. It tells someone, sometimes for the first time, that they are not alone.
I do think eating disorder spaces are beginning to talk more openly about who can develop an eating disorder. At the same time, many of these conversations are still being led by people who fit the SWAG stereotype: Skinny, white, affluent girls and women. Their advocacy matters and has made a difference. And, it can unintentionally reinforce the very stereotype we are trying to dismantle.
When the most visible advocates all look the same, it can make others question whether they belong. It can reinforce the belief that if you do not look a certain way, you must not be sick enough. That belief can delay people from seeking help, lead to missed diagnoses, or allow eating disorders to worsen.
Men, in particular, are often overlooked.
As a man who lived with an eating disorder, I did not have many places to land. I did not see myself reflected in recovery spaces. It felt isolating. Lonely. Shameful. Not because my experience was unusual, but because it did not match the story we are told about eating disorders.
There are many stereotypes about men that make eating disorders harder to recognize and disclose. Men are taught that showing emotion is weakness. That body image struggles are shallow. That eating disorders are a women’s issue. Some men are told directly or indirectly that if they struggle with food or their bodies, it must mean something about their sexuality. These beliefs keep men silent.
In my eating disorder recovery coaching work, many men I work with share that they have never found another man in this space, especially someone with lived experience. Even fewer have encountered male providers openly supporting men through eating disorder recovery. Reaching out can feel like stepping into a space that was not built with them in mind.
This isolation can continue even in higher levels of care. Treatment environments are often dominated by women, and the language used in groups and therapy frequently centers female experiences. Conversations about body image may focus on thinness, while concerns around muscularity, leanness, or performance are overlooked. Some men also carry fear about how they are perceived in these spaces, especially by women with histories of trauma. All of this adds another layer of discomfort to an already vulnerable process.
Providers are not always trained to recognize how eating disorders show up in men. Excessive exercise, rigid routines, obsession with control, or fixation on performance can be praised rather than questioned. For many men, there is a long process of unpacking gender roles, emotional suppression, and identity before the eating disorder itself can even be addressed.
Treatment is not one size fits all. And when we act like it is, people fall through the cracks.
Representation is not about taking space away from anyone. It is about making space for more stories. When men share their experiences, it strengthens the field. It helps clinicians learn. It helps families recognize signs earlier. It helps individuals feel seen sooner.
I often wonder how different my own journey might have been if I had seen myself reflected earlier. If I had known that excessive movement could be an eating disorder. If I had known that men struggle too. If someone had said, “This counts.”
That is why representation matters. Not as a trend or a talking point. But because it can change lives.
If you are reading this and questioning whether your experience is valid, hear this. Eating disorders do not have a look. They do not have a gender. If your relationship with food, movement, or your body feels consuming, rigid, or painful, that matters. You matter.
And if you are someone with influence in this space, a clinician, educator, advocate, or ally, I invite you to reflect on whose voices are being amplified and whose are still missing. Smashing the SWAG stereotype requires more than awareness. It requires listening, expanding the narrative, and making room for stories that have gone unheard for far too long.
