Why transformation stories can be powerful — but devaluation is not romance
Vertical dramas love transformations. And that is not a bad thing in itself. A glow-up can be powerful, emotional, and empowering: a character finds her way back to herself, gains confidence, leaves a toxic relationship, or starts a new life.
But it becomes problematic when the story makes one thing very clear beforehand: this woman only becomes beautiful, valuable, or lovable once she loses weight.
At that point, it is no longer about self-empowerment. It is body shaming — packaged as romantic development.
What I personally find especially unsettling is when the male lead barely notices the woman before, devalues her, or does not see her as desirable and after her weight loss, he is suddenly completely captivated by her. As if not only her body had changed, but her entire worth had only appeared because of it.
Of course, a character is allowed to change. Of course, a woman is allowed to lose weight, gain weight, reinvent herself, change her appearance, or develop a new relationship with her body. But the question is: who is this change for?
Is it for herself?
Or is it so that a man finally finds her attractive?
That is exactly where the difference lies between a powerful transformation and a toxic beauty ideal.
It becomes even more problematic when this transformation is not only told within the story, but also made visible by replacing the actress. Then the story is not simply saying: this character has changed. It is saying: this version of the woman was not good enough — so we replace her with another one.
That is a very strong message. And not a particularly good one.
Especially in international vertical dramas, appearance and body ideals already play a huge role. Men are often perfectly styled, muscular, rich, dominant, and usually get their obligatory shirtless moment. Women are flawlessly made up, slim, desirable, vulnerable — but of course, still always beautiful. From the beginning, the format plays with a highly exaggerated fantasy world.
That is part of the escapism. And yes, that can be fun.
But when, within this already idealized world, a overweight woman first has to lose a significant amount of weight before she is desired, respected, or loved, it becomes difficult. Then the story is no longer just telling a romantic trope. It is reinforcing a worldview: thinness means worth. Thinness means love. Thinness means a happy ending.
And that is exactly the problem.
Not every transformation is toxic. Not every glow-up is automatically body shaming. But when a woman first has to become thinner in order to deserve respect, love, or a happy ending, the story says more about our beauty standards than it does about romance.
A glow-up can be empowering when it comes from self-love.
It becomes toxic when it turns into the entry ticket to finally being loved.
