What Girl on Girl Misses — and Why the Context Matters
Sophie Gilbert’s Girl on Girl raises compelling questions about comparison, competition, and the ways women learn to see themselves through the eyes of others. Her cultural analysis is sharp and, at times, painfully resonant—especially in her exploration of homogenized beauty standards, the commodification of empowerment, and the pressures amplified by visual media. These examples matter; they’re part of the lived reality of contemporary womanhood in the U.S.
But Girl on Girl is also a very specific slice of culture—rooted squarely in U.S. mainstream pop culture and overwhelmingly centered on white, middle-class, millennial experience. And without deeper grounding in the systems that produce these pressures, its arguments risk confusing the medium for the message, attributing cultural shifts to the platforms that broadcast them rather than the forces that shape them.
This isn’t a failure of observation. It’s a failure of context. And that’s the heart of my frustration with the book.
Gilbert details how today’s visual culture—Instagram, reality TV, celebrity aesthetics—encourages women to benchmark themselves against a narrow, commodified ideal of femininity. She’s right that beauty “is for sale,” referencing industries in the U.S. and Brazil that promise transformation through consumption: hair, lashes, cosmetics, cosmetic surgery, luxury wellness, and endless self-optimization.
But this phenomenon didn’t begin with millennials, nor with digital culture.
Long before ring lights and filters, beauty in the U.S. functioned as a market-regulated system of value—something women were expected to invest in as a form of social and economic capital. Gilbert herself quotes Tressie McMillan Cottom’s insight at the beginning of Chapter 5: “Beauty isn’t what you actually look like; beauty is the preferences that reproduce the existing social order.”
This line—framed in Girl on Girl but underexplored—points directly to larger structures. These aren’t just cultural quirks—they’re baked into bigger systems. White supremacy sets the rules, capitalism cashes in, perfectionism keeps us striving, and American exceptionalism tells us it’s all our fault if we don’t measure up.
In this context, beauty is not merely cultural. It is political and economic.
Marshall McLuhan famously said, “the medium is the message.” Gilbert, however, often flips this—treating the medium (porn, Instagram, reality TV) as if it were the cause of women’s suffering, rather than the conduit for ideologies that long predate those technologies.
• Porn did not invent sexualized expectations of women.
• Reality television did not invent beauty hierarchies.
• Instagram did not invent comparison.
These platforms amplify, accelerate, and intensify what the culture already demands. By attributing relational difficulties, sexual scripts, and self-worth issues primarily to media exposure, Girl on Girl risks implying that the problem lies in women’s “overconsumption” of harmful images rather than in the systems generating those images in the first place.
Media are mirrors, not architects.
Much of Girl on Girl reads like a chronological catalogue of pop culture, weaving together celebrity moments, viral trends, and reality-TV storylines. A significant portion of the book is also devoted to detailed descriptions of sexualized imagery and violations against women, which, while illustrating cultural pressures, can feel sensationalized and at times overshadow attempts at systemic analysis.
While Gilbert’s examples of beauty, comparison, and commodified empowerment are compelling, they are also largely drawn from a very specific cultural context. Much of her analysis centers on U.S. reality television, celebrity culture, corporate feminism (#Girlboss, Lean In), Instagram aesthetics, and narratives about ambition and beauty. This narrow focus highlights the pressures experienced by a particular slice of society, but it can make the patterns she identifies feel culturally specific rather than reflective of broader, systemic dynamics.
This matters because it makes the analysis feel culturally specific rather than structurally universal. The pressures she describes—competition, comparison, and self-surveillance—exist globally, but the forms they take vary widely across class, race, nationality, and culture.
By treating these pressures as if they are primarily millennial phenomena shaped by social media and pornography, the book overlooks deeper continuities across generations and histories of patriarchal control. These tensions are not new. They are simply newly branded, turbo charged and monetized.
Gilbert references racial disparities but doesn’t fully integrate intersectionality into her argument. The experience of beauty and comparison is profoundly shaped by race, class, disability, and nationality—but Girl on Girl remains focused on the dominant narrative of white, U.S.-based feminine insecurity.
And while the book centers women, a broader sociological view reveals that men and boys are also being shaped—and harmed—by these systems.
And it’s not just women. In her book Men Who Hate Women, Laura Bates shows how boys and men are also trapped in these systems—though their pain often gets weaponized instead of commodified. These forces flow from the same systems of patriarchy and capitalism. The pressure to perform masculinity, to dominate rather than connect, to seek status through appearance or achievement—these are also forms of gendered control.
Girl on Girl is thought-provoking and at times emotionally powerful. Gilbert is deeply attuned to the lived experiences of comparison, aspiration, and insecurity among contemporary women. Her observations ring true—because the cultural patterns she highlights absolutely shape the world we live in.
But the story she tells is only one layer of a much larger structure.
Beauty standards, competitive femininity, curated empowerment, and the commodification of selfhood are not new problems created by digital media. They are expressions of systems that long preceded the technologies that now broadcast them.
When we focus on the images, we risk missing the architecture. The question is not simply why women compare themselves, but who benefits from a society in which women (and increasingly men) are: perfectible, self-surveilling, relentlessly optimizing, and continuously investing in their own inadequacy. The problem is not women looking at the “wrong screens.” The problem is the systems that built the screens—and profit when women lose themselves in the reflection. That’s why, for me, Girl on Girl is powerful but incomplete. It captures the feeling of living inside the mirror—but doesn’t fully explain who built it, nor what a better world would look like.
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