In a recent Netflix documentary, Tyra Banks, Miss J. Alexander, Jay Manuel, Nigel Barker, and past contestants from the 24-season, early-2000s reality TV juggernaut recount their experiences for the first time.

Iconic, and Still Complicated

Now, I don’t know about you—but me? I’m 5’9. I’ve been 5’9 since I was 13. So it’s safe to say I’ve been a tall girl my whole life.

Growing up, I thought that meant I had two options: play sports or model. And seeing as though I don’t have the best hand-eye coordination, I found myself drawn to the possibility of modeling.

But that idea always felt out of reach—until I discovered America’s Next Top Model. I may have binged the entire 24-season catalog in two months. I was obsessed.

Watching everyday women transform into real-life supermodels made it feel possible. Attainable, even. If there was one thing a tall, skinny girl could do, it was become America’s Next Top Model. And for a long time, I swore that one day, I would.

The Rules I Thought I Was Learning

But the lens that 24-year-old Mycah watches with in 2026 is very different from the lens 13-year-old Mycah used in 2015. Back then, I thought the show was teaching me all the hidden rules of the fashion industry early.

Don’t eat too much.
Don’t speak too loudly.
Be palatable.
Be manageable.

I mistook conditioning for preparation. What felt like insider knowledge was really a quiet lesson in how to make myself smaller—physically, emotionally, and socially—in exchange for proximity to success.

What We Called “Realism”

Many of the show’s most controversial moments weren’t received as controversial at the time. They were framed as “tough love,” “industry realism,” or simply the price of becoming a model. We didn’t question them because we weren’t taught to.

But it’s 2026, and we don’t body shame anymore. We live in a world where anyone can become a model, whether they’re a size 0 or a size 12.

What America’s Next Top Model normalized was the public policing of women’s bodies; weight checks, casual comments, and “concern” that often crossed into humiliation. At the time, it was framed as realism. Now, it reads as unnecessary harm packaged as discipline.

The show also blurred the line between transformation and consent. Makeovers were treated as tests of character, not choices, teaching viewers that discomfort was a prerequisite for success. We were trained to root for compliance.

Moments involving race and culture were similarly mishandled. What once passed as edgy or educational now looks like stereotyping in the name of entertainment. And emotional breakdowns were edited into storylines, turning distress into proof of ambition rather than a warning sign.

We didn’t question it then because we didn’t have the language. Now we do.

Growth, Even If It Was Imperfect

And still, I can’t pretend America’s Next Top Model didn’t grow. As the seasons progressed, so did the show. It expanded its definition of beauty by introducing plus-size contestants, embracing models who didn’t fit the industry’s narrow mold, and eventually making space for trans and male models in ways that felt intentional for the time. The world was changing, and imperfectly but visibly, the show changed with it.

That evolution matters. It reminds us that representation is not static. It is something that shifts as culture does, often slowly, often unevenly, but forward nonetheless.

What I Take With Me

I still have model dreams. They just don’t look like what 13-year-old me imagined. I no longer believe success requires shrinking myself to fit someone else’s standard or enduring discomfort to earn legitimacy. If I step into that world, it will be on my terms, fully formed, fully voiced, and fully aware.

America’s Next Top Model taught a generation of girls that visibility was possible. What this moment asks of us now is to imagine visibility without harm. Progress without punishment. Opportunity without erasure.

Some things were iconic.
Some things should stay in the past.
And some lessons, finally, we get to rewrite.

By the time kickoff arrived, the night had already moved beyond sports. Social feeds were locked onto pregame performances, group chats debated commercials in real time, and brands prepared for the single most expensive 30 seconds of advertising most would purchase all year.

What unfolded over the next several hours made something clear: the Super Bowl is no longer just where American culture gathers. It is where American culture gets negotiated.

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From one muse to the next

The first signal came before the game even started.

Standing on one of the most-watched stages in the world, Coco Jones delivered a performance of Lift Every Voice and Sing. Honoring the late musical legend, Whitney Houston in an outfit inspired by her 1991 Star Spangled Banner performance, this moment felt like a generational handoff from one muse to the next.

For many viewers, the significance wasn’t just musical. It was symbolic — a continuation of a long arc of Black performance moving from cultural contribution to a cultural centerpiece. Jones didn’t frame the moment as history. She performed it as present tense.

One time for PR

By halftime, the cultural center of gravity shifted again.

Bad Bunny’s headlining performance was widely discussed before it even began, with online commentary split between anticipation and criticism. Once the show started, the framing changed. The performance unfolded less like a crossover moment and more like a declaration of arrival.

For years, industry language framed Latin music as “crossing into” the mainstream. The halftime stage suggested that framing is outdated. Spanish-language performance was not treated as translation. It was treated as default.

The set’s visuals — rooted in Caribbean identity, diasporic storytelling, and national symbolism — reinforced what streaming data and global touring numbers have already proven: the mainstream is multilingual, multi-ethnic, and increasingly audience-driven rather than industry defined.

By the end of halftime, the question wasn’t whether the performance was successful. It was whether the conversation around it was still using outdated definitions of who the Super Bowl is “for.”

The Real Money Makers

If the performance showed who drives culture, the commercials showed who profits from it.

The cost of entry alone remains staggering. A 30-second Super Bowl advertisement now sits in the $8-10 million range, before production, talent, music licensing, or digital distribution are factored in. For some companies, the total campaign investment surrounding a single ad can rival an entire quarter’s marketing budget.

Despite that cost, brands continue to compete for placement because the Super Bowl remains one of the last remaining moments of guaranteed mass attention. More than 100 million viewers watch live, creating a media environment where attention is not fragmented by algorithm or platform.

For advertisers, the Super Bowl functions less like an ad buy and more like a market signal — proof of relevance, stability, and cultural awareness.

One of the clearest examples of that strategy this year came from Levi’s.

Rather than centering product features, the brand leaned into cultural storytelling. The campaign — featuring a cast spanning music, sports and fashion — positioned denim not as a commodity, but as a symbol of identity and confidence.

Featuring Doechii added another layer. Her presence signaled alignment with youth culture and music credibility while reinforcing the long-standing relationship between Black cultural production and global fashion influence.

The campaign didn’t attempt to explain culture. It assumed the audience already understood it — a shift that increasingly defines successful modern advertising.

If the night illustrated anything, it is that eh Super Bowl now operates as a convergence point: entertainment, commerce, identity and politics sharing the same stage whether intentionally or not.

Public reaction to the halftime show quickly moved beyond performance critique into ideological territory, reinforcing how major cultural stages now double as political symbols.

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Olivia Dean secured Best New Artist, officially stepping into her main character era and positioning herself as a new muse for the next wave of artists.

Performances from Tyler The Creator, Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, and Sabrina Carpenter felt cinematic — a reminder that the Grammys still run on spectacle, storytelling, and muses who shape pop culture in real time.

2026 Grammy Winners — BeyondTheMyc Recap 🎤

Album of the Year
Bad Bunny — DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS

Record of the Year
Kendrick Lamar ft. SZA — “luther”

Song of the Year
Billie Eilish — “WILDFLOWER”

Best Rap Album
Kendrick Lamar — GNX

Best New Artist
Olivia Dean

Best Global Music Performance
Bad Bunny — “EoO”

Best Música Urbana Album
Bad Bunny — DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS

Producer of the Year (Non-Classical)
Cirkut
(producer behind Bruno Mars & major pop hits)

Songwriter of the Year (Non-Classical)
Amy Allen
(writer behind Bruno Mars collaborations + pop chart staples)

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For decades, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show felt like the Super Bowl for women, a glamorous fantasy built on unattainable bodies and glittered wings. But this time, it feels different. With Angel Reese, the WNBA star known for her power and poise, and Quenlin Blackwell, our internet cousin and charismatic wild card, the brand signals a shift from aspiration to authenticity.

Their walk is more than lingerie and body-wave bundles. It’s a strut toward legacy, visibility, and the kind of confidence that can’t be scripted.

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Why this matters

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show first debuted in 1995 at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Back then, it was a modest production, more catalog than couture, with simple sets and even simpler lingerie. It wasn’t until 1998 that the now-iconic Angel Wings took flight, transforming the show into the global spectacle it would soon become.

By 2001, the show had evolved into full-blown entertainment — televised, star-studded, and paired with musical performances that turned it into a pop-culture event. Each year, the wings grew larger, the budgets bigger, and the fantasy brighter.

But as the world changed, Victoria’s Secret didn’t — or at least, not fast enough. As beauty standards diversified and new voices reshaped media, the brand faced mounting criticism for its lack of representation and inclusivity. Viewership declined, and by 2019, the runway lights went dark.

After a five-year hiatus, the Angels returned in 2024, and this time, they came back different. With new bodies, new faces, and the inclusion of trans models, Victoria’s Secret finally seemed ready to trade perfection for progress. The message was clear: representation isn’t a trend. It’s the future.

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This Time, the Wings Fit

Thirty years later, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show finally feels in tune with the world it’s dressing. Watching Angel Reese, Quenlin Blackwell, and Precious Lee take that stage feels like the runway finally caught up to the women it was meant for.

Reese walks in with the authority of an athlete who’s already changed the game. Quen brings the raw, unpredictable energy of a generation that made its own spotlight. And Precious Lee? She is the moment before the moment, proof that beauty doesn’t have to shrink to be celebrated.

Together, they represent where Victoria’s Secret is headed: bolder, broader, and finally, believable. It’s not a fantasy anymore. It’s reflection. And tonight, when those wings hit the runway, they just might feel like they finally belong to us.

For more information on tonight’s show, visit: https://www.victoriassecret.com/us/vs/vsinsider/fashionshow

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