Why Can’t We Stop Watching What Other People Eat?

Diet culture has turned eating into a spectator sport. But what are these videos really feeding us?

Abbie Attwood

Mar 29, 2025

I’d love to hear your take on What I Eat in a Day posts. Lately, I’ve been seeing more and more of them—some even expanding into What I Ate Last Week—which, if I’m being honest, just feels like the same thing stretched over a longer timeline.

And yet despite the discomfort I feel about them…I find myself watching. Sometimes wondering whether – Are they always a bad idea? Is this always diet culture? Can they ever be helpful?

I have a feeling you’ll articulate exactly what I’ve been struggling to pin down. Would love to hear your thoughts—your perspective always helps me see things more clearly.

Thanks for all you do,

Megan

I pulled this question because I’ve gotten so many similar ones over the years. Many of you won’t be surprised to hear that Megan is not alone in feeling unsettled by What I Eat in a Day posts.

Just this week, while I was speaking with one of my wonderful clients, they were reflecting on how much those posts not only contributed to their disordered eating behaviors, but also fed a skewed perception of what is enough to eat. Yet for many people, curiosity prevails — and whether these posts are always informed by diet culture is a valid question.

For context, a What I Eat in a Day (WIEIAD) post is a type of social media content where individuals—often influencers, wellness enthusiasts, or everyday users—document and share what they eat over the course of a day (or week, etc.). These posts typically appear in video format on platforms like TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube, but can also be a series of pictures. They often come with added commentary about portion sizes, macronutrients, or the supposed health benefits of certain foods.

Before we go further, let’s be clear: This is not a new phenomenon.

I am an elder millennial: born in the eighties, raised in the 90s. Meaning I (maybe like you) have been reading about what Jennifer Aniston eats in a day for 30 years (Friends fans, unite). It used to be a splashy headline in magazines — an intoxicating promise that you could get a certain celebrity stomach if you followed their eating habits.

So we’ve always been engrossed in the food choices of others. While once confined to the rich and famous, social media has meant that every influencer and their dog can pose as an expert or use an aspirational aesthetic to entice their audience with colorful meals set to catchy beats.

At first glance, WIEIAD posts might seem harmless—possibly even helpful. Perhaps they offer meal ideas, cooking inspiration, and a peek into someone else’s daily (or weekly, because I agree…it’s all the same) life. And if you’re recovering from decades of body image and food issues, you may feel that seeing someone’s full day of ‘healthy’ eating and ‘normal’ portions will motivate you to do the same. These videos could even read like a modern-day version of swapping recipes with a neighbor.

But when we take a step back, the discomfort that Megan mentions starts to make sense.

Hoenstly, if the post comes with an abs shot, that tells you all you need to know.

These videos or posts act like a mirror—but not the kind that offers a neutral reflection. Instead, they distort and warp, inviting comparison and self-doubt:

Am I eating too much? Too little? Too “healthy”? Too “unhealthy”? Do I need to change what’s on my plate? Am I serving myself too many carbs? Maybe if I eat like them, I’ll feel better?

It’s for this reason that WIEIAD content can be a breeding ground for comparison and misinformation. A curated highlight reel of meals—often edited to fit an aesthetic ideal—inevitably invites us to second-guess our own food choices. In a world where nutrition wasn’t the centerpiece of fear-mongering, bodies weren’t scrutinized, and health behaviors weren’t moralized, maybe this content could just be fun food photos.

But that’s not the world we live in. We are already inundated with messages about what we should eat, alongside scary claims about what we should avoid, so these videos can reinforce rigid, unrealistic, and sometimes disordered eating patterns. They contribute to the belief that there is a right way to eat, and that if we just follow the script, we’ll unlock some kind of idealized health or body shape.

Many of these posts—whether intentionally or not—also contribute to elitism, perfectionism, and a false sense of control over the body.

They rarely acknowledge the realities of hunger cues, emotional ties to food, fluctuating nutritional needs, or the fact that no two bodies require the same foods in the same way. Instead, they suggest that eating is something to be mastered, optimized, and controlled—rather than something to be enjoyed, imperfectly prepared, and trusted.

Even if it’s subtle, the creators behind WIEIAD posts are often framing their eating as a path to something better – whether that’s inferred by their body’s appearance, the cleanliness of their home, their fitness routine, or their skin. Lately it seems to center on how their very specific grams of protein per meal is the path to longevity and eternal bliss.

I’ve noticed that influencers are getting savvy to the rhetoric that challenges diet culture, so they may paint their food diaries as nuanced and neutral as a way to differentiate themselves from the “problematic” crowd. But WIEIAD posts can’t help but carry with them the deeper anxieties we feel about food, health, and control.

cooked food on tray — It’s aesthetically pleasing and oh-so-aspirational. Photo by Ella Olsson on Unsplash

While I’m interested in the individual experience of these posts, I’m also intrigued by what they represent as a whole. In others words: Why are they being created, and why do we care?

To me, it feels like the vitality of WIEIAD posts reflect our cultural obsession with what other people are doing with their bodies. They exist in the context of the personal responsibility narrative in nutrition: the myth that if we eat in a certain way, we can control our body and our health —an obsession that, for many, leads to anxiety and illness rather than embodiment and well-being.

These posts aren’t just about one person’s eating habits; they are part of a larger system of food surveillance and risk management. (Okay, stay with me here, because my research brain wants to enter the conversation.) Sociologists have identified this as part of what’s known as risk society (Beck, 1992) and risk discourse (Crawford, 2004)—a way of seeing the world where everyday life is full of health hazards, requiring constant vigilance and self-monitoring.

When we consume WIEIAD content, we’re flooded with videos that follow a problem/solution format, where food is depicted as both the cause of and the cure for bodily issues. And it’s through this lens that we are perpetually fed the deeply flawed all-or-nothing, black-and-white approach to nutrition.

Often without knowing it, we wind up in a cycle of being encouraged to scrutinize and micromanage our diet in an effort to solve problems that are often just natural human experiences. In this framework, food is no longer just food; it’s a risk that must be managed. WIEIAD videos reinforce this mindset by framing eating as something that must be done correctly—a set of rules and strategies rather than an intuitive, flexible act.

Even more problematic, these posts push informal, influencer-driven “coaching” that replaces expert guidance with personal anecdotes. This shift toward lifestyle influencers as trusted authorities has made nutrition advice more accessible but also more misleading, as it is often based on lived experience rather than science.

When you come across one of these posts, just pause and consider: What is the *goal* of them sharing this?

But if this content is so fallaciously disorted, why do we keep watching? Why do these videos have millions of views?

I think it’s because, collectively, we don’t know how to eat anymore. And it’s not our fault. Being fascinated by someone else’s food choices stems from a deep cultural confusion about food — a confusion that is strategically maintained by diet culture’s ever-changing directives about what is the “best” way to eat. Vegan? Carnivore? High-fat? Fasting? Gluten-free?

We don’t trust ourselves with food anymore—diet and wellness culture have stripped us of that confidence. We’re inundated with conflicting nutritional advice, moralized food rules, and unrealistic body ideals, leaving many of us feeling like we need guidance on the right way to eat.

And then there’s the reality that many people watching these videos are hungry. Literal hunger — physical hunger, mental hunger, emotional hunger, the hunger created by years of restriction. When you don’t allow yourself enough food, watching someone else eat can feel like a form of vicarious satisfaction. WIEIAD videos can serve as a stand-in for what we deny ourselves, making them strangely addictive—even when they make us feel worse.

When we’re underfed, over-restricted, and disconnected from our own needs, watching someone else eat becomes oddly fascinating.

Research on the psychological impacts of under-eating confirm this. Studies reveal that we become obsessed with food when we’re not eating enough of it.

This reminds me of how I used to watch a lot of the Food Network during my eating disorder, and even loved to cook for others, even though I wasn’t consuming all the things I felt so enamored with. I’ve had hundreds of clients share similar things with me over the years – that they too became consumed by food when they weren’t actually consuming enough of it. Many of us even identified as a foodie in the depths of restrictive eating.

It makes sense that these posts feel deeply compelling when we’re deprived of satiation and joy; when food is constantly on our mind; when we crave the experience of eating despite not fully allowing ourselves to eat in an unconditional and pleasure-oriented manner.

If we don’t feel safe in our own eating choices, it is completely understandable that we’d look elsewhere for guidance or “inspiration.” And yet, that guidance—packaged in 60-second clips—usually leads us further away from ourselves.

“We have been taught to compare, taught that we are never enough.

But who profits from this self-doubt?” – Sonya Renee Taylor

What About Recovery-Oriented What I Eat in a Day Posts?

Some creators have attempted to subvert the traditional WIEIAD format by framing their posts as recovery-oriented—showing a day’s worth of meals that are less rigid, including fear foods, or explicitly calling out diet culture. The intention here is often to normalize eating more, challenge restrictive food rules, and provide reassurance for those struggling with disordered eating.

On the surface, this shift seems like a positive one. And for some people, these posts might offer a sense of relief—seeing someone enjoy a bagel without guilt or eat dessert without compensating can be a powerful counter-narrative in a world steeped in food shame. But even when framed as recovery content, these posts still exist within the same ecosystem of food surveillance and comparison.

As Audre Lorde famously said, “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” The What I Eat in a Day format was built within diet culture—designed to make eating something to be observed, analyzed, and compared. Even when repurposed for recovery, it still operates within the same framework of public accountability, external validation, and the idea that what we eat needs to be justified. It can invite self-questioning: Am I doing recovery wrong? Maybe I’m eating too much? Should my plate look more like that? Am I eating enough protein?

As a creator in the anti-diet space, I have actually questioned whether to even share one-off meals and snacks in my Instagram stories.

You will never see me share “what I eat in a day,” but I love food, and I do like to share the joy I’m getting from our favorite takeout, or the simplicity of making a satisfying 5-minute yogurt and granola bowl instead of skipping breakfast. But believe me, I hesitate sometimes – wondering if even one photo could be misleading or invite comparison. And I’m very open to thoughts on this (leave a comment!).

But is this comparative content really what we need more of?

Because if what you want is meal inspiration, I do believe that can be done without a detailed (and perfectionistic) account of every bite from someone’s day. You can look to recipes rather than full food logs.

And if you need support in healing your relationship with food, you can follow accounts that speak about true body autonomy, compassionate eating practices, and how to reconnect with your preferences and needs. Maybe you find that seeing an individual meal here and there is helpful, rather than seeing the entirety of a person’s food ingested across a day. Remember, these posts cannot possibly reflect every bite, let alone the emotional aspects of eating or the variety that occurs over time.

In a galaxy far far away, where bodies and food choices were not subject to moral judgment; where diet culture did not exist; where impossible beauty standards didn’t dictate the self-worth of so many, then perhaps these posts could exist in a fun and neutral way. But alas, here we are.

So, if WIEIAD posts are bothering you, trust that feeling. They are curated in a way that can make us question ourselves, but you don’t need a sexy video to tell you how to eat.

And if you genuinely feel you’re able to engage with these posts without any self-doubt, that’s wonderful. I really mean that.

Either way, curiosity and compassion are a really great starting point if you are interested in exploring the impact of this social media trend. The next time you come across this content, pause and reflect:

How is this making me feel?
Why am I interested in it?
What is this influencer’s goal in sharing all their meals?
Where might I find something more aligned with what I truly need?

Leaning into body respect and practicing self-compassion with food is hard in a world where social media inundates us with shiny solutions to the human experience. It requires us to unlearn the belief that food is something to be controlled, perfected, and optimized. To stop seeing eating as a risk to be managed and instead recognize it as an act of nourishment, pleasure, and autonomy.

So maybe the real question isn’t, “Should we be watching these videos?” but rather, “Why are we watching?” and “What would it take for us to trust ourselves enough that we no longer feel the pull?”

As a personal note, I haven’t watched these videos — or followed creators who post about their eating habits — in many years. And if I do come across them, I scroll right past, because at this point I’m so disinterested in what anyone else is eating in a day. Early on, I would have been pulled back in, questioning my own food choices. But after almost 15 years of recovery, this content is deeply unexciting. I wonder if the less you see and engage in the content, the less meaning it holds, and the more space you create for your own experience — separate from the influencer-driven messages that call your own body’s wisdom into question.

I’m curious what your thoughts are on this.

How do these posts make you feel?
Have you paused to consider the goal of the person creating them?

Full Plate by Abbie Attwood

Discussion about this post