As Snoop Dogg puts it, the West Coast is home to the girls he adores the most – sun-kissed, fit and full of energy.

The lyrics from the West Coast’s national anthem, “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, played on repeat in my head as I prepared to move to Los Angeles for college. Growing up in the Middle East, this influence unconsciously made me set new body expectations for myself before I even arrived.

My friends joked about how I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the “stick-thin, blonde athletes” I would encounter in LA. They teased me about needing to “get my act together” through more exercise and a healthier diet.

While we laughed about these ideals, living in LA turned out to be more complicated than I expected. Moving here has undoubtedly changed my relationship with food in ways I didn’t anticipate.

This shift left me wondering why. What is it about the Middle East and LA – their diet cultures and societal norms – that feels so different?

How did these contrasts shape a new mindset around food, one I wish I could let go of?

My aunties, teachers and adults weren’t shy about commenting on my physical appearance. Back home in Jordan, comments about weight gain or loss or suggestions of plastic surgeries they thought would suit me were neither outlandish or taboo.

During my senior year of high school, my AP Calculus teacher suggested I needed lip filler to “even out” my face. As odd and inappropriate as the comment was, a remark like this wasn’t new to me, so my self-esteem remained unscathed.

Things changed once I moved to LA.

In LA, I encountered a new, more pervasive form of body scrutiny. Seeing calories listed on menus, posters of recommended portion sizes in dining halls or products marketed as “Skinnygirl Popcorn” was a culture shock.

Giant billboards featured skinny models, and Ozempic ads were everywhere. News articles revealed that celebrities – some of my lifelong role models – used the drug to slim down. In turn, the pressure to conform to beauty standards wasn’t spoken of overtly, but it was present everywhere, framed as attainable through discipline and self-control.

Food in Jordan, on the other hand, is tied to culture and community. Social gatherings, like the weekly Azoomas hosted by Jordanian women, revolve around large feasts prepared with care and served in abundance.

This communal aspect of life shifted focus away from individual body image to a shared enjoyment of food. Yes, beauty standards existed, but they coexisted with values of family, hospitality and tradition.

I began to notice a paradox – the bluntness of Jordanian culture and the implicit pressures of LA society represent two entirely different ways of communicating similar ideals about beauty and body image.

Back in Jordan, remarks about physical appearance – though startling by Western standards – often came from a place of cultural norms rather than malice.

When someone commented on your weight or appearance, it was out in the open, short-lived and easy to dismiss.

By contrast, the subtle but persistent nature of societal pressures in LA made it harder to identify the source.

It wasn’t a single comment from an aunt. It was a long-lasting, cumulative effect of wide-ranging attitudes that made me question my self-worth in a damaging way.

The relentless promotion of juice cleanses, gym memberships and self-care packages advertised as “taking care of yourself” created a narrow definition of self-love that didn’t resonate with me.

I was left questioning if I was doing enough – eating right, exercising enough, looking good enough.

Even small remarks in casual conversations would stick with me for months, such as, “Oh my god, I was so bad today. I ate a burger with the actual bun and fries on the side,” or, “You think that’s healthy? It has peanut butter on it.”

Although these comments seemed insignificant, they left a lasting impact – I could never enjoy bread or eat peanut butter without hesitation again.

Moving to LA initially pressured me to unlearn my previous mindset around food, which revolved around eating whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

Upon reflection, I realized the importance of disentangling the toxic aspects of LA wellness culture while embracing its positive elements.

Although living in LA negatively affected my self-esteem, it has also had a positive impact on me – especially in terms of my personal growth.

The mindset shift I’ve had in prioritizing my health and well-being has been truly transformative. Back in Jordan, self-care was mostly discussed in a cosmetic sense, rather than as a way to feel good.

But in LA, for the first time in my life, I have a morning routine that I love because it sets up my day perfectly. I never realized how small changes – like waking up early, going to the gym, journaling and listening to music – could transform my life.

It has given me more structure and ensured that I set aside time to take care of myself and ground myself outside of school and my other responsibilities.

There is value in being able to resist tempting, unhealthy food to prioritize your health – choosing what will fuel you, give you more energy, help you think more clearly and make you feel more comfortable in your own skin.

However, when this mindset starts to interfere with your ability to enjoy an occasional cheat meal, something is off.

I’ve made a conscious effort to stop idolizing an ideal body standard and have shifted my eating habits toward intuitive eating – focusing on what feels good both mentally and physically. I’m learning to balance foods that are both nutritious and comforting for the soul.

Similarly, my mindset in the gym has evolved. Rather than striving solely to lose weight or achieve a specific appearance, my goal now is to become the best version of myself.

I’ve come to understand that both cultures have their flaws. Jordanian remarks about appearance are uninvited and unwelcome, yet their transparency makes them less corrupting. Meanwhile, LA’s wellness culture, despite its emphasis on body positivity, often feels tied to beauty standards that equate physical perfection with self-worth.

Ultimately, I’ve learned that my worth isn’t tied to the expectations of either culture and isn’t up for debate – not by Jordanian aunties, not by LA diet culture and definitely not by a number on a scale.

I don’t exist to meet anyone’s expectations but my own. Strength, energy, confidence – those are my new metrics.

If I feel good, that’s enough. If I’m proud of myself, that’s enough.

And for the first time, I get to decide what enough looks like.