The Empathy Gap: Why We Romanticize Some Eating Disorders and Vilify Others

I think a lot of our attitudes toward eating disorders come down to how eating disorders are portrayed in media and culture. The stories we repeatedly hear and see shape not only how we understand these illnesses, but also who we believe deserves compassion and care.

Anorexia is often romanticized and framed as a matter of willpower, discipline, or self-control. In contrast, binge eating is typically depicted as the opposite: a lack of control, a personal failure, gluttony, or a moral weakness. This framing assigns moral value to certain behaviors and bodies. It frames eating disorders as a matter of willpower or the lack thereof, even though all eating disorders are serious mental illnesses with real and often devastating consequences. Eating disorders are among the deadliest mental illnesses, second only to opioid addiction in some studies.

The stereotypical portrayal of anorexia is that of a young, white, affluent woman—something that can be, and is being, romanticized. Over time, this image becomes deeply ingrained. Subconsciously, it can lead people to associate anorexia with things society already tells us to desire: thinness, wealth, status, and perceived success. When an illness becomes linked to cultural ideals, it can distort how seriously we take it and how much empathy we extend to those who suffer from it—or to those who suffer from an illness that looks nothing like anorexia on the outside.

I would argue that there is also an element of white supremacy at play in how different eating disorders are perceived. By this, I don’t mean overt ideology, but the cultural system that decides whose bodies are seen as worthy of care and whose are treated with suspicion or disgust. Fatphobia and racism work together here, making thin, white suffering easier to empathize with, while higher-weight bodies—especially bodies of color—are more likely to be viewed through shame rather than compassion. In movies and mainstream media, people with anorexia are overwhelmingly portrayed as white, while people of color—when they are shown at all—are more often depicted as having other eating disorders. The last notable movie on eating disorders that I can remember coming out of Hollywood (To the Bone) followed this same pattern. The main character was a thin, white woman who struggled with anorexia, while other eating disorders were represented in a much shallower way, reinforcing the idea that some forms of suffering are more palatable and deserving of empathy than others.

Religious undertones further reinforce these ideas, particularly around willpower and self-denial. In Christianity, denying the body what it wants or “cleansing the flesh” is often framed as virtuous or morally superior. Within that framework, restriction can be unconsciously seen as disciplined or even admirable, while binge eating is cast as a moral failing. These narratives blur the line between illness and morality, making it harder for people with certain eating disorders to be heard or met with understanding rather than judgment.

It’s also important to acknowledge prevalence. Binge Eating Disorder is the most common eating disorder, with roughly half of people suffering from an ED meeting the criteria for BED. Anorexia, by comparison, is much less common, and most anorexia sufferers don’t even match what the stereotypical portrayal looks like. That rarity can create a dangerous sense of being “special”—both in how society views anorexia and in how individuals may internalize their own illness. When sympathy is tied to scarcity or visibility, suffering becomes something that is implicitly ranked.

What I find most troubling is how easily we, as a society, decide who deserves sympathy—even when we are talking about serious, life-threatening mental illnesses. When empathy is filtered through race, morality, religious values, or cultural ideals, it stops being empathy. It becomes conditional.

All eating disorders are illnesses. None of them reflect moral character, willpower, or worth. The way we talk about them matters, because language shapes stigma, access to care, and whether people feel safe enough to seek help at all.