A Love Letter to the Freshman 15

Dear Reader, 

In the summer months before my first days of college, I ran seven to 10 miles a day. I chased a runner’s high: the accomplishment of a half marathon, the feel of the wind in my hair, and the rush of blood in my ears. 

But I chased something else more: thinness. 

I first heard the term “Freshman 15” sometime in high school, but I cannot remember exactly when. I know that it came both from older women and my peers. The older women warned me, my peers feared it as I did. The running, in my head, gave me “room to grow.” I weighed myself after every run, noting down the small decreases daily. I was at a dangerously low weight when arriving at college, and I was also suffering from knee, back, and shin pain because of the stress I had put on my body. All this effort came from a desire to sculpt myself into my idea of a “perfect form” before the dining halls, the drinking, and the lack of sleep all hurtled toward me.

I went from a diet of coffee, peanut-butter toast, and whatever was served for family dinner, to the best dining halls in the world. I left the world of nightly movies and an 11 p.m. bedtime for one of no sleep, constant pre-games, and dancing until we physically could not dance anymore. For a time, my weight did not rule my life; I finally felt thin enough. I fed my body what it deserved, let my knees and tired back rest, and celebrated each weekend with new friends. I soon noticed a change. I would stare at my swollen face and ill-fitting pants in the dorm mirror. I began to run more frequently than ever before, sacrificing my academics along the way. My roommate owned a scale, a digital machine of fluctuating numbers. I began to use it once or twice a day as my life, again, became ruled by numbers on a scale. Classes made it hard to run. Motivating myself to exercise an hour to two hours every day became almost impossible, not just because it meant one less hour to do my classwork, but because my motivation came from the wrong reasons. Staying “thin enough” is a fickle thing. I lost my love for running, and was solely running to maintain a figure I thought would please others. I had hit a wall. Those two words, as silly and futile as it seems, genuinely haunted me. 

I am here to let you know that the “Freshman 15” is demonstrably a myth. In a study on the phenomena, The National Library of Medicine found that the average weight gain among participants was a mere 2.7 lbs. However, the saying persists. Out of 203,000 internet links related to the term, a vast majority are concerned with ways to “avoid” the “Freshman 15.” Without fail, Google searches for the “Freshman 15” spike between August and November. I know that I Googled “Freshman 15,” and read about how to prevent it; the methods included “don’t drink your calories” and “resist the late-night temptation.” The “Freshman 15” disproportionately affects women and femmes, often reflecting societal pressures around body image and the expectation for young women to maintain a certain appearance, while the male experience of weight gain in college is less often discussed or stigmatized. The “Freshman 15” is not only a gendered term, but also a classist term policing access to “healthy” foods and fitness centers. Moreover, it is an ableist phrase used to oppress those with physical and mental disabilities. Ultimately, it demonstrates the way bodies are exploited by capitalism to maintain a hegemonic, white, eurocentric ideal.

When I think of the thin beauty standard, I think of petite, white, often female celebrities. Issues of weight and eating disorders often conjure up white women, their ribs visible, their clothes hanging off of their thin frame. Black bodies have always been policed in our society, and have never been accepted under the racist, Eurocentric beauty standard. Fatphobia is more historically recent than other forms of prejudice, with fatness being associated with wealth and respectability in the West until the early 19th century. The slave trade birthed anti-fat rhetoric as it was another way to oppress and alienate Black people who were enslaved by France and Britain. American slaveholders contended that Black people were so inclined to both physical and mental disabilities that they needed the protection of their owners to survive. Scholar Anna Mollow notes that this fatphobic, anti-Black rhetoric persists in the modern age. Republican Congressman Peter King justified Eric Garner’s murder at the hands of police in 2014 by stating that Garner was a “350-pound person who was resisting arrest,” and Garner’s “asthma” and “heart condition” caused his death. At the same time, because of his Blackness and his large frame, Garner was seen as unharmable, dehumanized, and able to withstand the intense choking the police inflicted upon him. Fatphobia and anti-Black racism are routinely deployed to justify state-sanctioned violence and oppression because Black people are both depicted as innately disabled (from anti-fat bias) while also as immune to pain, because of their Blackness. This means fat Black people are viewed in a “double-bind”;— inconsequential because of fatphobia and disproportionately strong because of their Blackness. Ronald Reagan invented “the welfare queen,” a fantastical image of a “lazy” and “irresponsible” Black, often fat, woman who would leech off the state for food stamps and welfare checks. Coding fatness as a moral failing allows for a form of “new racism” where the same, bygone stereotypes of physical and mental pathology towards Black people have been revived under the guise of pro-fitness and pro-thinness culture. The “Freshman 15” myth is not just a harmless saying; it perpetuates harmful standards that intersect with deeper societal prejudices, reinforcing fatphobia and racism. By upholding an unattainable body ideal, it continues a legacy of marginalizing Black bodies, while pressuring young people into unhealthy relationships with food and exercise. Understanding the history and consequences of such narratives is essential to dismantle the systems that exploit and police bodies under the guise of “health.” While UCLA is more diverse than my private, Catholic high school, African Americans make up only 6.5% of the student population. This lack of representation reflects how systemic racism, including fatphobia and anti-Black bias, continues to marginalize Black bodies even in spaces that claim inclusivity. By perpetuating narrow ideals of beauty and worth, institutions mirror the broader societal patterns that undervalue and police Black people, particularly those who do not conform to Eurocentric norms. 

Fatphobia and ableism are often interconnected. Women have been quoted as preferring to get hit by a car, develop a terminal illness, or lose limbs over getting fat. Fatness scares us more than disability does. I’ve dealt with these very feelings; when contemplating getting a breast reduction surgery, I was not terrified of being wheelchair-bound during recovery because of America’s poor infrastructure for disabled people and the oppression that comes with this reality— I was terrified that I would get fat because of my loss of mobility. Rarely do we ever see fat, disabled representation. This lack of representation forces a dichotomy: one is either fat or disabled. To be both is unthinkable to an ableist and fatphobic society. Fatness is seen as interconnected with disability, as a pathology that not only causes physical difficulties, but social ostracization. The message that thin is healthy and fat is unhealthy is inescapable. The ways that fat people and disabled people are disenfranchised mirror each other, from pathologization to architectural boundaries, and social ostracization. However, while disabled activists have made some headway in the stigmatization of disabled people in both the doctor’s office and public spaces, fat activists have had little such luck. When fatness and disability are viewed through a social model, they can be seen as forms of state oppression, rather than a personal defect. However, far too often, disabled representation reaches as far as a thin white person in a wheelchair, who is looked upon with pity and sympathy as they did not choose their condition. Disability is policed, and many are labeled as being “not disabled enough” if their condition is not readily apparent or widely known, or if they are part of another marginalized group. However, there is no “right way” to be fat that can grant someone respectability, pity, or empathy: fatness is seen as a moral failing, as something that can be controlled, and therefore the public does not respect fat people. Society views fatness as burdensome and irresponsible. Mental health issues that come from weight-based stigma also contribute to the fatphobic landscape of college and wider society. Fat people are often characterized as lazy or unhygienic, a stereotype that is also often levied at those struggling with depression and other mental illnesses. Incessant microaggressions volleyed at fat people result in an emotional upset, a rise in stress levels, and an alteration of cortisol levels. 

For young women and femme-presenting people who begin to gain weight in college, the stigma surrounding fatness can significantly impact their mental health, leading to increased stress, anxiety, and self-doubt. I remember these microaggressions after the weight gain I experienced during COVID: “You’ve really filled out during quarantine, huh?” “Are you sure you want to eat that? It’s not the healthiest choice.” This led to an intense shift in my diet, especially as I went back to public life at school and was reintroduced to the constant gaze of my peers. My undereating caused brain fog and fatigue, which can lead to increased depression and anxiety. In the fall quarter of my Freshman year, my brain, after years of undereating and overexercising, began to falter. I was still undereating, attempting to maintain my stringent running schedule. I wanted to look good at parties. My brain could not support this. This environment of constant scrutiny and internalized fatphobia often contributes to unhealthy coping mechanisms, such as overeating or restrictive dieting, and habits like undersleeping, which only exacerbates the mental health stress that is not conducive to successful performance in college. The societal pressure to conform to a thin ideal can intensify feelings of inadequacy, mirroring the harmful effects faced by both fat and disabled individuals who are pathologized and socially ostracized. These experiences further perpetuate a culture that equates thinness with worth, intensifying the cycle of stigma and unhealthy living. For many, including me, the mental health challenges associated with weight stigma can create a vicious cycle where stress and anxiety lead to behaviors that contribute to further weight gain. This cycle can be compounded by feelings of shame or guilt, which often discourage individuals from seeking help or engaging in self-care practices. Additionally, the social isolation that can arise from weight stigma may exacerbate mental health issues, leading to emotional eating or inactivity as coping mechanisms. Over time, the compounding effects of mental health struggles and weight bias can make it increasingly difficult to break the cycle, further entrenching individuals in unhealthy patterns.

When I arrived at college, I entered a world of dining halls, college towns, bars, and the stress that comes with coursework. These can all contribute to weight gain, along with the coming of age and further maturation in one’s 20s, something I experienced and was unequipped to cope with because of my social conditioning and my perceived “failure” to maintain my weight. The all-you-can-eat characteristics of dining halls are fun and inviting; some of my fondest memories from Freshman year are talking for hours over a table stuffed to the brim with plates. Dining halls can be a stark shift for many, as some students come from backgrounds where food was scarce, or where dinner was often fast food or ready-made microwavable meals. Class is a significant factor in fatness and therefore fatphobia. The prevalence of obesity among lower-class women is almost twice that of upper-class women. Access to healthier, grocery store foods, expensive gym memberships and fitness classes, and time to achieve adequate sleep, exercise, and decrease stress contribute to the white, wealthy beauty standard many aspire to. Through tuition expenses, students are given access to high-quality food and a gym. Giving students the tools to achieve a white, wealthy beauty standard ignores natural differences in our bodies and the intersectional causes of weight gain. Our bodies should not be seen as a meritocracy competition, one should not be blamed for not adhering to a Eurocentric beauty standard despite being given access to the “tools” to do so. All of us are not meant to, not genetically inclined to, or even desire to have identical, thin bodies. Blaming lower-class people for perceived weight gains upon their arrival at university neglects to consider the way food insecurity and limited access to nutritious options can make it difficult for students from lower-income backgrounds to prioritize healthy eating habits. When faced with tight budgets, convenient and affordable high-calorie options often become the default. Additionally, stress related to financial burdens can lead to emotional eating as a coping mechanism, further contributing to weight gain. This disparity highlights the need for more inclusive health and wellness programs on college campuses that address these socioeconomic barriers. Fatness is not an issue to be solved, but binge-eating as well as intense food restriction are symptoms of the stress that one can encounter when introduced into a new environment, especially considering the intersectional causes of one’s relationship with food. Going from a public middle school to a private high school, and then back to a public college education, I witnessed how class and a wealthy upbringing contribute to thinness. My peers were attending expensive pilates classes, often had gyms in their homes, and had access to the high-quality gourmet grocery stores many do not. Students attending private schools experienced privileged upbringings where becoming an income earner for the household, assisting in raising younger siblings, and other outside stressors do not affect them. For many I went to high school with, their weight was a project, something to be preoccupied with, and something to control in their relatively privileged life. I saw them become suffocated by this preoccupation, I watched them eat nothing for lunch and stare at themselves in the bathroom mirror at school dances. This wealthy environment upholds a beauty standard that propagates thinness through restrictive eating practices and reinforces the idea that self-worth is tied to one’s ability to conform to an idealized appearance. These women were also depressed, struggling to uphold a beauty standard none of them chose but almost all of them strove to uphold. Students from lower-class backgrounds may struggle with limited access to nutritious foods and fitness resources, making it harder to adhere to these out-of-reach societal beauty standards. The pressure to conform to these ideals can be even more challenging, as financial constraints often force reliance on inexpensive, less healthy food options and limit opportunities for structured exercise. This disparity in resources and access contributes to the persistence of the “Freshman 15” myth, as weight gain during college is often stigmatized without acknowledging the socio-economic factors that influence students’ health and body changes. Systems of class oppression and fatphobia are inextricably linked. We exist in a system designed to make this unattainable “perfect body” ideal even harder to reach for poorer people, and yet punish them for not reaching it. This cycle promotes advertisements, weight loss products, and expensive diets and exercise equipment that continue to keep the capitalist wheels turning as our bodies get ground in their gears. 

The “Freshman 15″ is doubtlessly a gendered term. While people of all genders can and will gain weight upon their college entry, with men gaining an average of 5.4 pounds and women 3.2 pounds within their first year, the burden is on women and AFAB non-binary people to maintain and uphold the beauty standard prescribed by a white eurocentric ideal. The fear of the “Freshman 15” sparks disordered eating habits that often hit young women in high school (as they hit me) before even setting foot on their college campus. Many adolescent women develop anorexia or orthorexia, a form of disordered eating where only clean or perceived “healthy” foods become acceptable, by their junior year. Orthorexia has become the new palatable form of eating disorder, a way to eat clean and feel better for it. However, it remains true that we would rather our young women be orthorexic than fat, despite new studies demonstrating that just like anorexia and bulimia, orthorexia can be deadly. Greek Life culture also contributes to the gendered-ness of the “Freshman 15,” where being thin and maintaining a strict definition of beauty is seen as a requirement to join a sorority. Many young women rush as soon as they come to college, and are exposed to the beauty standard they were trying to ascribe to since they were in high school. While Greek Life concentrates these standards in a way that is very clear to see, the pressures to conform to them permeate throughout all women and femmes, regardless of whether they are in college or a sorority. At my private high school, where thinness, whiteness, and wealth defined the social hierarchy, the environment was deeply oppressive; beauty felt like a currency that determined my worth. Transitioning to a public university, I encountered an exciting new populace of body diversity that challenged my previously narrow definitions of beauty. For the first time, I began to understand that thinness is one of the least important things about me. Meeting people with different experiences and perspectives taught me to appreciate not just my own body but also the joyous, unapologetic ways others inhabit theirs. I realized that happiness and beauty are not contingent on fitting a specific mold, and that fat joy and liberation are just as valid and powerful as any other form of self-love.

Food is communal. Enjoying a meal with housemates, having a late-night sweet treat with friends, and having a drunk meal on the streets of Westwood are all some of my most cherished memories in college. The increased pressure of college, having to grow into adulthood, self-made schedules, and a tougher course load can contribute to a feeling of lack of control. Women and gender non-conforming individuals may see eating and diet as one of the things they can control in a society that seeks to rob them of their agency and self-worth. This can lead to an obsession over one’s eating and one’s weight, especially when feeling the added pressure of a white, eurocentric beauty standard that neglects to take into account the way Eurocentric body standards make any bodily change and diversion from the norm punishable. The ideal body dominates advertisements, especially in Los Angeles, where one feels they cannot escape the omnipresent thin ideal while on their phones, in the streets, and even in the classroom. Dropping the term “Freshman 15” from our vocabulary is necessary as we move into a new era of body acceptance and body neutrality. Celebrating our bodies as we enter college, not as a vessel to be controlled and manicured, but as the embodiment of our existence in our communities, a way to eat, drink, sleep, experience, and grow, is necessary to ensure one’s college experience is as stress-free and enjoyable as possible. We are all meant to experience changes in our bodies as we age. Our bodies are our armor that protects our brains and our hearts as we bravely take the transition in stride. So, my dear reader, eat that pizza, give yourself grace, and try your best to love your body as you enter the next chapter of your life. 

Sincerely, 

Leeann Remiker