Barbie was a fixture of my childhood, the quintessential doll that represented beauty, fashion, and an aspirational lifestyle. I remember the joy of unboxing a new Barbie, her pristine figure and glamorous outfits promising endless possibilities. But as I got older, I began to realize that those possibilities came with a price—a price that I, like so many others, paid in the currency of self-esteem.
Back in the day, Barbie set the standard. She had it all: the wardrobe that would put Aquina Marcos to shame, the pink dream house, the pink convertible, the pink bathtub. And let’s not forget Ken, who somehow always had the perfect tan despite never having a job. Her eyes were blue and sparkly, porcelain skin that never experienced the sting of Seabreeze. And the beautiful, long blond hair. The hair! Who has hair like that laughs in the face of humidity and sun? (Did I mention I am not a natural blond?)
But the real clincher was that teeny, tiny waist. I mean, how did she [pretend] eat? The thought never crossed my mind as a kid, but now I can’t help but wonder: Was she on some kind of pretend no-carb, no-fun diet? Because I’m pretty sure that if I had Barbie’s waistline, I’d be fueled by nothing but air and self-doubt. Plastic pizza be damned.
As I grew up, I started to notice that my own body wasn’t following the Barbie blueprint. My legs didn’t stretch for miles, while my waist… well, let’s just say it did. For years, I struggled with the fact that no matter how many sit-ups I did, I was never going to look like her. I wasn’t alone in this realization. Many of my friends experienced the same disconnect, the same creeping sense of inadequacy. Barbie’s perfect plastic body became a silent critic, reminding us of all the ways we didn’t measure up. And anyway, I loved my cheeseburgers and chicken soft tacos and the occasional pizza. Who wants to live in a dream house when you can’t even chew on a tictac without feeling guilty? Or so I convinced myself.
In recent years, Barbie has undergone a significant transformation. Mattel’s introduction of dolls with diverse body types, skin tones, and physical abilities is a step in the right direction. Today’s Barbies include curvy, petite, and tall models, as well as dolls that use wheelchairs or have vitiligo. This shift reflects a broader cultural movement toward inclusivity and body positivity, a movement that recognizes the damage done by decades of promoting a single, narrow standard of beauty.
Fast forward to 2023. When I heard about the new “Barbie” film, directed by Greta Gerwig, I wondered how it would tackle this complex legacy. The film, as it turned out, does something remarkable: it holds a mirror up to Barbie’s history while also challenging the very ideals she once perpetuated. Margot Robbie’s portrayal of Barbie is both a celebration of the doll’s cultural impact and a critique of the unrealistic beauty standards she set for generations of girls.
The film delves into the pressures that Barbie’s image has placed on women and girls. It explores how Barbie, with her flawless looks and perfect life, contributed to a narrow and often harmful definition of beauty. As America Ferrera’s character Gloria puts it, “I'm just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us.” Gloria’s now iconic speech poignantly expresses the exhaustion and frustration of this constant struggle. Watching it, I couldn’t help but think back to my younger self, struggling to reconcile my own body with the idealized image that Barbie represented. The movie’s message is clear: it’s time to expand our understanding of beauty to include all shapes, sizes, and colors.
Still, it’s hard to forget the impact of the original design. The memory of Barbie’s impossibly perfect body is something that sticks with you, like that catchy “Barbie Girl” song from the ‘90s that you’ll never get out of your head. It’s a reminder of how deeply those beauty standards were ingrained in us—and how challenging they are to shake off.
But if Barbie can evolve, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us too. The doll that once made me feel like I needed to squeeze into skinny jeans and stilettos is now part of a broader conversation about body positivity and self-acceptance. And let’s be real, who wouldn’t rather slip into a pair of comfy jeans and sneakers, knowing that Barbie herself would approve?
So here’s to the new Barbie—one that’s more relatable, more inclusive, and a lot more fun. She’s gone from being a symbol of unattainable beauty to a reminder that it’s okay to be who you are. In the end, Barbie’s transformation is a win for all of us. She’s proof that even the most iconic figures can change, and that beauty doesn’t have to come in one narrow, plastic-wrapped package. Now if only they’d make a Barbie that enjoys a good pizza and a Netflix binge, we’d really be onto something.