When the Fitness Influence Fails to Move Us

I've watched fitness influencers for a while now. Not in the way their followers do, obsessively liking every post and waiting for the next workout video or scam promotional item. I've watched their careers arc like comets—bright, fast, and inevitably burning out.

It's a peculiar thing to observe. These are people who've built their entire identities, not to mention their livelihoods, on being paragons of physical perfection. They start out full of enthusiasm, posting endless streams of gym selfies and gobbledygook inspirational quotes. Their bodies are carefully filtered and posed, presented as chiseled works of art, the product of grueling workouts and often, though they rarely admit it, chemical enhancement.

But here's the thing about being a fitness influencer: it's not sustainable. The human body isn't meant to maintain peak physical condition indefinitely. Sooner or later, something gives.

This reminds me of my father's experience. He was a football star at West Virginia University in the late-1950s. Captain of the team as a freshman, all-everything in high school. His yearbook photo showed a young man with "pro tackle" ambitions, dreaming of being the next Forrest Gregg, the Packers great.

But dreams have a way of colliding with reality. In his sophomore year, during a game against George Washington, he blew out one ACL. Later that same season, he injured his other knee against Southern California. He tried to come back as a junior, but was useless, buried deep in the depth chart. The dream was over almost as soon as it had begun.

This pattern—the meteoric rise followed by a sudden, often injury-induced fall—is something I've seen repeated countless times in the world of fitness influencers. A top-tier strongman blows out his knee. A CrossFit champion tears her rotator cuff. A bodybuilder's heart gives out after years of steroid abuse. Suddenly, the person whose entire brand was built on superhuman strength and endurance is posting from a hospital bed.

It's a stark reminder of our mortality, watching these larger-than-life figures grapple with the limitations of their own bodies. Some try to pivot, becoming coaches or focusing on "wellness" rather than pure strength. Others fade away, their follower counts dwindling as they can no longer provide the inspirational content their audience craves. A few find themselves on the loony fringes of politics, trying to peddle dumb ideas the way they once pimped largely ineffective supplements.

What fascinates me most is the psychology of it all. These influencers have spent years, sometimes decades, defining themselves by their physical capabilities. Their self-worth is inextricably tied to their ability to lift heavier weights or run faster times than anyone else—or at least to present themselves in staged photos and videos as being able to do that. When that ability is suddenly taken away, what's left?

I remember interviewing former NFL player turned academic, Michael Oriard. He spoke at length about  the "betrayal of the body"—that moment when an athlete realizes their physical prowess is slipping away. It's a profound crisis, even for someone like Oriard who’d prepared for life after sports.

For fitness influencers, I imagine it's even worse. They don't just lose their athletic ability; they lose their livelihood, their audience, their entire identity. It's like watching a star collapse in on itself.

My father faced a similar crisis. After his college career ended, he tried semi-pro ball with a team called the Pennsylvania Mustangs in 1965. But by then, he was already 280 pounds, up from his playing weight of 240. The explosiveness that had made him a can’t-miss future star was long gone. The dream that had been his ticket out of poverty had vanished.

What's particularly interesting is how predictable this cycle has become. We've seen it play out so many times that it's almost a cliché. Young, attractive person appears to get in amazing shape. They build a following on social media, hawking protein powders and resistance bands. They reach the peak of their popularity. Then, inevitably, they start to decline.

The decline can take many forms. Sometimes it's a sudden injury. Sometimes it's a gradual loss of motivation or interest. Sometimes it's simply the passage of time, the slow accumulation of years making it harder and harder to maintain that perfect physique.

Whatever the cause, the results the same: a steady erosion of relevance. Posts that once got thousands of likes now barely break three digits. Sponsorship deals dry up. The algorithm, that fickle master of online fortunes, begins to favor fresher faces.

It's tempting to feel schadenfreude watching these falls from grace. After all, many fitness influencers build their brands on a kind of implicit superiority— "Look at me, I'm in better shape than you." When they falter, it can feel like karmic justice.

But I try to resist that impulse. Because ultimately, what we're watching is human beings grappling with the fundamental unfairness of existence. No matter how hard you work, how disciplined you are, how many supplements you take or how perfectly you optimize your training regimen, time will eventually win out. Your body will betray you.

This is a truth that fitness influencers, perhaps more than anyone, struggle to accept. Their entire worldview is built on the idea that with enough effort and willpower, you can sculpt your body into whatever shape you desire. The idea that there are limits to this—that eventually, no matter what, decline is inevitable—is anathema to everything they believe.

And yet, it's a truth we all must face eventually, even the transhumanist kooks. We're all aging. We're all, in one way or another, always already in decline. Fitness influencers just experience this universal human condition in a particularly public and dramatic way.

My father's story illustrates this perfectly. After his football career ended, he had to reinvent himself multiple times. He moved from one hustle to another, always trying to stay one step ahead of obsolescence. It worked for a while, but by his 50s, he’s run out of gas—“I kept making moves until the last one was to the grave.” The ability to keep reinventing himself, to keep finding new angles, had finally deserted him.

So what's the lesson here? Is it that we should all give up on fitness, since eventually we'll lose it anyway? Of course not. Exercise and healthy living have myriad benefits beyond just looking good in Instagram photos.

I think the lesson is about balance and perspective. It's about understanding that while physical fitness is important, it shouldn't be the sole defining aspect of our identities. It's about recognizing that our worth as human beings isn't determined by how much we can bench press or how visible our abs are.

For those of us who aren't fitness influencers, it's a reminder to approach these online personalities with a critical eye. Remember that the perfectly sculpted bodies you see on Instagram are often the result of not just hard work, but also good genetics, clever photography, and pharmaceutical assistance. Don't let their curated representations of physical perfection make you feel inadequate.

And for the influencers themselves? My advice would be to start planning for the future now. Diversify your identity. Find meaning and purpose outside of your physical capabilities. Because sooner or later, change will come. And when it does, you'll need something to fall back on.

This applies not just to fitness influencers, but anyone who's built their identity around a single aspect of themselves. Whether you're an athlete, an academic, or a business person, it's important to have multiple dimensions to your life and self-worth.

In the end, the rise and fall of fitness influencers is a microcosm of the human experience. We all have our moments in the sun, our peaks of performance and popularity. And we all, eventually, have to come to terms with our limitations and mortality (“we’re all on the way out, so act accordingly”).

The trick, I think, is to appreciate the highs while they last, without becoming so attached to them that the inevitable lows destroy us. It's about understanding that our value isn't in our perfection, but in our humanity—flaws, decline, and all.

The stories of these fallen fitness influencers serve as reminders of this fundamental truth. They're cautionary tales, but also potential stories of resilience and adaptation. Because even after the fall, life must go on, because it can. As my father never tired of saying,  “There are only two bad things that could happen after you shut your eyes each night: you don’t wake up, or you do.” The challenge, for all of us doomed humanzees, is to find meaning and purpose in that next chapter, whatever it may be.