In his 1956 book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, renowned sociologist Erving Goffman uses a theater’s “front stage” and “back stage” as a metaphor to describe how people act when they know society is watching versus when they are removed from public scrutiny. According to Goffman, people perform in their everyday lives, taking on specific roles for their audiences and carefully projecting a desired image of themselves.
Goffman’s theory has aged incredibly well. In today’s age of social media, online platforms have essentially created a permanent, universal “front stage” where people can perform at any moment. Gym influencers, or fitfluencers, sit at the root of this unrealistic performance culture within the wellness world.
They meticulously construct an image of discipline, health and physical achievement — their very own front stage — to attract and retain an audience, while concealing their backstage behaviors, circumstances and imperfections. They post content about their lifestyles, workout plans, diets, and daily routines, often to motivate or guide their followers toward their own ideal bodies.
For years, I have often experienced unhealthy mental comparisons and instant negativity while watching clip after clip of gym influencers — whether they’re posing in a mirror or telling me what I should or should not eat to achieve my “dream body.” I know I am not the only person who has opened social media intending to watch one funny video to boost my mood and suddenly found myself questioning whether I am working out enough, eating the right foods or doing enough to look the way I am supposed to look.
When messages are repeated over and over, it becomes increasingly difficult to separate inspiration from pressure. Comparison and insecurity are normal human experiences, especially for adolescents and young adults with developing bodies and minds. But constant exposure to content that tells us what our lives are supposed to look like can turn these ordinary insecurities into something much more consuming.
This dynamic plays out at the Claremont Colleges, where students cycle through countless conversations about workout routines, step counts and protein goals. When the front stage is everywhere — on our phones, in our classrooms, in our friend groups — it is hard to remember that it is a performance at all.
But it is important to remember that social media is also a business. For gym influencers, the greater the engagement, the more opportunities to earn money through sponsorships, advertisements and promoting their own products. As a result, health and fitness become more than a personal interest; they become the influencer’s 9-to-5.
An influencer who spends several hours at the gym, carefully preparing every meal and filming multiple workouts, is not living the same lifestyle as the viewer watching their content between classes or after a long workday. Yet on our feeds, these differences become blurry. The influencer’s “front stage” performance makes their routine seem like a choice anyone can make if they work hard enough.
Take financial differences, for instance. The diets and routines influencers promote may be harder to fit into the lives of people who work all day, who likely cannot afford the expensive, nutritious ingredients for a weekly meal plan or a fancy gym membership with specialized equipment. Even time itself is a privilege.
I am not claiming that gym influencers intentionally normalize unrealistic and unsustainable lifestyle changes, nor that every influencer falls prey to this overarching narrative. There are plenty of creators who actively promote accessible workouts, balanced approaches to nutrition and realistic expectations. The problem is that these creators make up a small sect of gym content on social media.
Even if more authentic influencer voices become dominant on our feeds, their popularity will bring more followers and money, ultimately turning their content into another profitable performance rather than genuine connection with their viewers.
In a way, we all have our own “front stages.” The difference is that gym influencers aren’t just documenting their lives; they’re making money by convincing audiences to want the lives they present.
As the audience in this prominent gym-influencer niche, we have a responsibility to recognize the extreme differences between the lives we see online and our own, as well as the gap between an influencer’s appearance and reality.
Goffman captures this tension well when he writes, “The audience senses secret mysteries and powers behind the performance, and the performer senses that his chief secrets are petty ones.” There isn’t necessarily an elaborate secret behind every influencer’s body. Rather, the performance itself often creates mystery.
But constantly staying aware of this performance is exhausting, and trying to confront it is exasperating. Instead, we should remember that the stage is not the whole story. Only when we recognize this can we begin to understand how to deconstruct performance-driven culture as a whole.
Kira Heller ’29 is from Oakland, CA. She keeps a running list in her Notes app of people’s answers to the light, decidedly non-existential question, “What do you think the meaning of life is?”