The 2026 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Let Us Relive the Bad Old Days

I am speaking now to the people of the world who are not the shape of a stick insect. I hope you enjoyed your moment. I hope you cranked up the tunes and broke out the champagne back in those glorious years when we celebrated body positivity and the belief that our anatomies should have room for internal organs. I hope you enjoyed it. Took pictures. Kept a souvenir.

Because those halcyon days of celebrating the endless shapes, the beautiful details, the magnificent uniqueness of the human form? Gone. Done. Finished. Sayonara. Kindly collect your cellulite on the way out.

If there was one message from the 2026 Victoria’s Secret fashion show it was this: Body positivity was a limited time offer. It's now as sexy as a Hyundai sales event.

Two years ago, I watched the show with my then 15-year-old daughter. The spectacle was making its return six years after being cancelled—in every way. As I wrote then of that 2018 plug-pulling: “People understood disordered eating. Pussy hats had marched on Washington. And time was up for a whole generation of abusers. Suddenly, exploiting women’s bodies for entertainment didn’t feel so good. The moment was over. The Angels were locked in a glass box to be put on a bookshelf and marveled at once in a while. Holy shit can you believe the crap we used to do? Scandal, controversy, and the world marching inexorably toward body acceptance all coalesced.”

My daughter wasn’t particularly interested in watching that surely ill-fated comeback, but I told her to grab a seat and get comfy, a forthcoming chemistry test be damned. In the end, the Victoria’s Secret show of 2024 turned out slightly better than the chemistry test. I guess you could put them both in the D/D-cup range.

Obviously a parade of women in push-up bras and feathers was never going to be the ideal vehicle for feminism and inclusivity. And Les Wexner, the billionaire who built Victoria's Secret into an empire as well as a longtime financial patron to Jeffrey Epstein, was not going to be the guy to figure it out. But that can’t explain what I watched last night. Wexner left five years ago. The company is now run by a woman whose name I could look up but, in the spirit of feminism, have chosen not to. I’m sure the suffragettes, had they lived to see the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show of 2026, would have been right there in the front row. Susan B. Anthony waving a foam finger. Elizabeth Cady Stanton shouting, “Take it off!”

Of course, we don’t have them. Or Betty Friedan. Or Gloria Steinem. But you know who we do have? The Donald. The Cornell 7. And that voice of a generation, Megyn Kelly. The one who bravely reminded us that Cornell 7 accuser Jane Doe was “extremely beefy in her arms and legs” so she was lucky to have wandered into that fraternity on that chilly night.

Oh right, the show.

With righteous indignation as my copilot, I poured myself a glass of wine and summoned my daughter to the living room. We settled onto the couch with pretzels and cheese. My son wandered in.

What follows is an edited transcript of the next 30 minutes, during which my family conducted an impromptu seminar on feminism, hypocrisy, and the appropriate amount of clothing to wear while eating cereal.

“She’s too skinny.”

“You can’t criticize their bodies.” My daughter.

“Aren’t they inviting us to talk about their bodies?” Me.

“Mom! Are you kidding me right now?” Daughter.

“Maybe? Crap. I’m not sure?”

“What’s the difference between this and a fashion show?” Son.

“I hope you’re joking. One is about what they’re wearing. One is about what they’re not wearing.” My daughter again. Then she notices her brother pouring a bowl of cereal in his underwear.

“You’re not in the show. Put some clothes on.”

On television, curvy models parade down the runway every now and then—Ashley Graham, Precious Lee, and Paloma Elsesser among them. But, according to my kids anyway, they’re drowned out by the very thin ones. (Looking at the post-game numbers, they were right: With 80 models walking in the show, less than 10% could be considered “curvy" or “plus-sized.”)

Then a woman walks down the runway in layers of hot pink fabric bobbing around her head. She looks like she’s being strangled by a radioactive peony.

“This is the most Republican thing I’ve ever seen.” My daughter.

“Why?” Me.

“Are we not watching the same thing right now?”

I’m considering this, but she’s onto the next model. Or singer. Or someone’s girlfriend. The distinctions have become increasingly academic.

“Oh I love her! She’s so pretty. She’s married to Cole Sprouse. She just had a baby. Oh my god it’s Tate McCrae! She’s cheesy but I like her. Gigi Hadid is dating Bradley Cooper.”

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is Page Six with a wind machine.

“Do they sell the wing things IRL?” My son.

My husband walks in. The last time we had this much togetherness was probably Christmas Eve.

“This is like a bunch of surgery reference pictures for future White House press secretaries.”

So? Do you guys think this is a step forward for women’s rights?

“Please.” I bet you can guess who. “Obviously it’s not a step forward for feminism but they’re marketing it like it is. That’s the most cynical part. The sexism is covert.”

I’m still trying to untangle covert sexism from overt cleavage when my daughter perks up.

“The sports car song! This is what I would walk to.”

My brain becomes a cartoon spiral. Concentric circles swirl around my head as I perform a double take, a triple take, a complete neurological reboot.

“You would want to walk this show??”

“Jesus, I’m talking to the Wokler. Obviously, I wouldn’t but I like this song.”

So there it is. I’ve raised a feminist who can identify the patriarchal machinery of the beauty industrial complex, dismantle its marketing strategy, and simultaneously form opinions about her runway soundtrack.

Then:

“Oh damn, they’re twerking.” My daughter.

“Oh snap, they’re backing it up!” My son.

Welp.

“I’m going to go do my homework.” Both of them, pretty much in unison.

And just like that, the family summit is over. Feminism has been considered. The patriarchy remains intact. The math homework, for now, has a fighting chance.

A moment later, I’m alone in the living room. I mute the television and start cleaning up. Women continue marching down the runway in their stilettos and frothy little nothings. I load the dishwasher. More women. I wipe down the counter. More wings. I put away the cheese. Still more women.

And that’s when I realize something surprising: I hope it ends soon.

Not because the show is making me feel bad about my body. Not because it’s setting feminism back 50 years. Not even because I’ve spent the evening watching women dressed as centerpieces and it’s not Halloween.

Because I’m bored.

Maybe that’s the most damning thing of all. Victoria’s Secret once sold fantasy. It made women want things, even if those things were impossible bodies and uncomfortable underwear.

Today it’s not selling aspiration or even provocation. It’s selling the same fantasy, repackaged as progress, to an audience that, speaking for myself and my daughter, has moved on. The angels are still walking. The wings are still flapping. But nobody in my house anyway is watching anymore.

To read more about body discourse:

• I Was Finally Represented in a Victoria's Secret Fashion Show and I Don't Care
• My Thin Daughter Taught Me That Everyone Loses in Body Discourse
• On Learning to Think About My Body as a Whole, Not Parts