When The Biggest Loser premiered in 2004, I was nine years old. It was the type of show that made the whole family pay attention, and soon enough, at 7pm each night, every member of my family would gather around the TV to watch a group of overweight individuals go to drastic measures to lose weight.
Despite not even being double digits at the time, I still vividly remember sitting on the couch and clocking for the very first time that I looked more like the contestants on the show than the trainers. In that moment, the childhood joy of not caring what I looked like disappeared, replaced with an innate shame that I don’t think I’ve ever truly been able to shake.
But the worst bit? The way The Biggest Loser changed how society — and my family — spoke about our bodies.
The Biggest Loser is arguably one of the most successful reality shows of all time. After the immense success of the first two American seasons starring trainers Jillian Michaels and Bob Harper, it was promptly turned into a worldwide franchise, with the Australian iteration premiering in 2006.
Michelle Bridges and Shannon Ponton became our new inspirational trainers who appeared to expertly coach the contestants into celebrated, trim bodies. Just like the original, the series was incredibly successful and had a welcome spot on our screens until its cancellation in 2017.
Most recently, The Biggest Loser has been back in the spotlight thanks to a new Netflix documentary entitled Fit For TV: The Reality Of The Biggest Loser.
The documentary series explores the ethically questionable methods utilised by the show to see substantial and rapid weight loss, along with the extremely fatphobic messaging and condescending, belittling treatment of the contestants for entertainment purposes.
While there are contestants who say the show changed their lives for the better, there’s no doubt that the show was questionable at best and has had lasting impacts on contestants physically and mentally.
But the impact of The Biggest Loser wasn’t just felt by those who went on the show. It seeped into the way we spoke about fatness, fitness, weight and exercise.
We were already in the era of stick-thin celebrities being monitored by vicious tabloids who felt very comfortable dissecting the bodies of famous women. While this was already damaging for the psyche and body image of people all over the world, it felt like The Biggest Loser was the final ticket permitting everyday people to unleash their fatphobic opinions on others.
Even as a kid, I felt the change in the room as my overweight yet nine-year-old body was now up for discussion. While I wasn’t always privy to these discussions, now I could feel them. I could sense the eyes on me and, despite being a precocious child who loved attention, the focus didn’t feel good.
The judgment wasn’t always explicit. Most of the time, it was delivered in a sly little comment or gesture.
I remember guilt seeping over me when I was told to “slow down and leave something for the rest of us” while my older, thinner brothers were encouraged to eat more at a family lunch. I remember overhearing other kids whispering about my weight behind me in class. I remember my aunts and uncles questioning my parents about what they were feeding me as they stared at me from across the room. And while I loved sports and exercise, it suddenly felt like it wasn’t enough.
As I grew up and the show grew in popularity, the message only seemed to get louder, coming from all different directions. No matter how I sliced it, it felt like I’d never be worthy unless I lost weight.
Ironically, I eventually lost a considerable amount of weight after high school. I even turned to a program by Jillian Michaels to kick-start my weight loss journey. After all, she’s the expert, right?
Despite fluctuating in size over the years, I eventually fell in love with weight lifting, boxing, and using exercise as a tool to manage my mental health. It’s shifted from a form of punishment to something that I genuinely enjoy.
These days, I am so thankful that the rhetoric of 2025 is significantly kinder, more knowledgeable and less fanphobic about people residing in bigger bodies. However, if I’m being truthful, the scars remain, and I often wonder how much brain space I’d have if my mind weren’t so consumed with how my body looks — and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.
The Biggest Loser may have been a fleeting moment in our reality television history, but its lasting negative effects on our culture are still being felt today by people like me who are desperately trying to unlearn the subconscious messaging it drilled into us during our formative years.
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