During the pandemic, Joe Wicks got a nation moving. A decade earlier, YouTube tutorials promised thigh-gaps and 200-calorie shreds. Gym influencers have always lived in this strange split: part public health service, part disordered fantasy.
I distinctly remember growing up in an era of 'clean-eating' and ‘200 Calorie Shred’ workouts that promised quick, sustainable results without reference to the complexities of body composition. 'Being the best version of yourself' (as influenced by your favourite creator) used to mean jumping jacks in front of your TV, following a low-calorie, aestheticised What I Eat in a Day, and praying that the misery would pay off when you looked like a Victoria's Secret model.
Spoiler alert: you probably won't.
In part, things are different for young people. Strength training is finally mainstream. “Strong” has become an acceptable aesthetic — even aspirational. Influencers now talk about the importance of rest days and fuelling your workouts. A far cry from the 2014 “eat half an avocado and run for your life” era, which I sincerely hope we leave in the 2010s.
But the landscape didn’t change. It has just rebranded.
Today’s wellness creators preach empowerment, but many still package the same old values in new language. “Lean” replaced “skinny.” “High-protein” replaced “low-calorie.” “Daily routine” replaced “diet plan.” And somehow social media still rewards the most extreme bodies, the most disciplined lifestyles, the most curated realities.
As a former athlete, even I feel intimidated by gym influencers, who remain caught between being genuinely helpful and quietly harmful. You should absolutely find a way to move and fuel your body in a way that feels right for you. Because for every creator teaching proper form and telling girls to eat more, there’s another promoting a lifestyle that no normal person could maintain. Not without the money, time, and frankly, obsession to maintain it.
And I hope young people know this: they are navigating a fitness culture that is more informed than the one I grew up with, but it is also more aestheticised, more intense, and more subtle in its complexities.
My truth is simple: gym influencers are both a blessing and a curse. They have made fitness accessible in ways we could have only dreamed of — but they’ve also built a culture where your body and routine are branding, and your worth is measured in discipline.
They motivate their audiences to move, but they also feed comparison. They teach technique, but they also monetise on your insecurities. They democratise information, but they also promote lifestyles so curated we can hardly relate to them.
My instinct as a teenager that something is wrong? That hasn't gone away, but it looks different than it used to.
I still follow gym influencers. I still catch myself longing for their bodies. But the logic remains: does health automatically mean hours in the gym every day? Absolutely not. Most of us are juggling studies, jobs, families, and life. Sometimes a walk is all you can reasonably manage — and that’s fine.
And as for the supplements, powders, and an influencer's must-haves? Maybe they help. Maybe they don’t. But I’ll take my GP’s advice over an influencer’s Amazon affiliate links any day of the week.
Do I think gym influencers are inherently bad, though? Of course not. If someone online helps you move your body, eat well, or feel stronger, that’s a win. But we’d be kidding ourselves if we didn’t acknowledge how murky the health claims on the internet can get. We don’t need panic — we need transparency, honesty, and a little more critical thinking from all sides.