“Angels Take Flight: Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Dazzles with Show-Stopping Performances” -

In 1995, Victoria’s Secret took its first tentative step onto the runway, and if you weren’t there, it might be hard to imagine just how different things were. Back then, Victoria’s Secret was simply a well-known lingerie store you’d find in the mall, with catalogs offering a peek at glamorous models and sensuous designs. The fashion world hadn’t quite caught up with the idea of transforming lingerie into an event in itself.

That inaugural show? It was a far cry from the over-the-top spectacles we know today. Picture this: the models, dressed in cardigans over demure bustiers and basic push-up bras, strutted down a simple runway, with little more than a handful of friends and industry insiders in the audience. There was no grandeur, no multi-million-dollar production. No fireworks or live performances by pop stars. It was, to put it bluntly, quaint—a far more understated affair.

The vibe was “sexy but wholesome,” almost as if the show was designed for a different era. Think back to the days when a 14-year-old boy might fantasize about his hot substitute teacher—appealing, yes, but in an innocent, almost nostalgic way. There was a sense of seduction, but it was wrapped in layers of comfort. The outfits, while undoubtedly attractive, were more reserved, with not a hint of the flamboyant, jaw-dropping couture we’d later come to expect from the brand.

At the time, the show was seen as an exciting new direction, but it lacked the spectacle that would define future Victoria’s Secret Fashion Shows. There were no wings, no glamorous sets, and certainly no over-the-top theatrics. It was simple and somewhat restrained, a far cry from the extravagant, high-octane production that would eventually make the show a global sensation.

In hindsight, that first show feels almost… boring. Sure, the models were beautiful, but there was no drama to keep the audience on the edge of their seats. It was a charming, albeit modest beginning, to what would go on to become one of the most iconic fashion events in history. But for all its innocence, that show was the foundation for everything that came next, the first brushstroke on a canvas that would soon be splashed with color, glitter, and a whole lot of spectacle.

At some point, someone had an idea that would completely redefine the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show and, by extension, turn it into the cultural juggernaut it became. Gone were the days of modest cardigans and demure bustiers. The new goal? Make the show so bonkers, so over-the-top, that it would leave an indelible mark on pop culture. The result: a spectacle like no other.

Over the next few years, the Victoria’s Secret runway show evolved from a humble event into something akin to the Met Ball, but with much less clothing. It traveled the globe, reaching new heights of grandeur. The models, once simply known as “models,” were now rebranded as “Angels,” draped in wings that were often 12 feet tall and weighed as much as 40 pounds. If that seems like a lot, it’s because it was. To put it into perspective, more than 800,000 real feathers were used to build the wings over the years. This was no longer just a fashion show. It was a pageant of excess.

And while the wings were the crown jewels of the production, they weren’t the only spectacle. The clothes, often overshadowed by the grandiose theatrics, became secondary to the cultural phenomenon the show had become. The outfits were dazzling, yes, but the real showstopper was the sheer spectacle—giant headpieces, outlandish set designs, and a blur of cultural references that often veered dangerously into fetishization and appropriation. Chinese culture, Indigenous cultures, and just about every other culture you could think of were co-opted for the sake of “fashion.” The show became less about the clothing and more about making a statement—no matter the cost.

The models, those Angels, weren’t just walking down a runway. They were patronizingly floating above the masses, unattainable in their size 00 glory. They were, in many ways, more fantasy than real people. Of course, this mythical status had its perks: they didn’t just have their wings; they also had their own pink private plane. Talk about elevated status.

It was during this golden age of the Angels, around 2000 and 2001, that I found myself drawn into the frenzy. As a young beauty journalist, I was tasked with covering this spectacle, and at times, it was hard to fully grasp the level of adoration the Angels received. The show had become so huge that the first Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show to be streamed online actually caused the servers to crash. It was that big. And me? I had the distinct privilege of reporting on the hair and makeup backstage.

In truth, I could have written a piece as simple as “self-tanner, body glitter, and a sea of hair extensions,” and no one would have batted an eye. But there was something intoxicating about being in the midst of it all. The chaos, the glamour, the absolute moment of it. Being around the show felt like a backstage pass to the cultural zeitgeist. If I couldn’t walk the runway myself (and, let’s be real, there was no chance of that), being close to the spectacle was the next best thing.

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show wasn’t just a fashion event anymore. It was a moment. Maybe it wasn’t at Swiftie-level, but it was a big deal. And for me, and many others, having that backstage pass felt like having a ticket to the front row of something historic—an event that, for better or worse, shaped the cultural conversation for years to come.

Looking back, it’s almost surreal to think that I once considered the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show the epitome of everything important—beauty, fashion, power, women, New York. It ticked every box, sure, but it did so in a way that was equal parts cheesy and exclusive. We were all in on this cultural moment, mesmerized by the spectacle, but deep down, there was a quiet nagging feeling that maybe it wasn’t as glamorous or as empowering as it seemed.

There’s something almost mythical about the dangers of mortals engaging with angels. After all, myth rarely ends well for the human in the equation. For me, covering the show—immersed in the whirl of high fashion, glitz, and unreal beauty—almost always ended in the same place: a sharp dose of disillusionment. I’d walk away thinking, Huh, now I feel bad about myself. And before I could even process that, I’d be flipping through channels hoping “Sex and the City” was on, something to ground me back in reality, or at least in a world that made me feel a little more seen.

And honestly, I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

In 2018, after twenty-three years of spectacle, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show was canceled—for good. It was no longer the golden age of Angels. By that time, we had witnessed the evolution of societal attitudes. We were beginning to understand the depth of disordered eating, and the #MeToo movement had made it clear that the exploitation of women’s bodies for entertainment was no longer something we could casually accept. The feminist wave had risen, and we had marched in Pussy Hats on Washington, demanding change. The cultural conversation was shifting, and suddenly, the show’s narrative of unattainable perfection, skinny bodies, and sexualized spectacle didn’t feel so fun anymore. It felt… off.

The moment that had once felt so powerful—where these women, the Angels, floated above the world as paragons of beauty—suddenly seemed like a relic of a bygone era. The Angels were locked in a glass box, put up on a shelf to be marveled at occasionally, almost in disbelief. Holy shit, can you believe the crap we used to do? We saw the show not as the icon it once was but as a symbol of a time when beauty standards were narrow and rigid. We were left grappling with the reality that maybe the world had moved on.

The cancellation wasn’t just about the show. It was about what had changed in the world. It was about how the collective consciousness had shifted toward body acceptance, inclusivity, and a deeper awareness of how women were portrayed in the media. People began to realize that if Victoria actually had a secret, we didn’t care about it anymore. It was no longer relevant in a world where empowerment was about more than just parading an idealized body down a runway.

And so, the Angels were grounded. The show ended not with a bang but with a slow, inevitable fizzle.

As someone who spent years shaking my head at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, I’d always thought there was no way I’d let my daughter anywhere near it. As a parent trying to raise a young woman in a world that often feels obsessed with unrealistic standards, the idea of exposing Frankie to that level of spectacle and body idealism felt like something akin to leaving her alone in a dressing room with Donald Trump. It just wasn’t going to happen.

But then, last night, something changed.

When the Victoria’s Secret show made its return, I couldn’t ignore it. Frankie, now 15, was the only person I could imagine watching it with. I thought, maybe this would be the moment to show her how far we’ve come, how much things have changed, or perhaps even to discuss how little had changed. Either way, it felt like a cultural moment—one worth sharing with her, even if she didn’t quite see the importance.

“Mom, please. I have so much homework,” she pleaded as soon as I grabbed her.

“Sorry. This is more important than homework. This is a cultural moment,” I replied, trying to sound convincing.

She gave me the kind of side-eye that only a teenager can muster and then rolled her eyes so dramatically that I almost heard it. But I turned up the volume anyway.

It wasn’t long before Frankie spoke up. “I wonder if they’re only going to do skinny models.” I was actually proud that she was disappointed at the thought of it, even though I knew better. The days of seeing a range of body types on the runway were still far off.

And here’s the spoiler: they didn’t only showcase “skinny models.” But let’s be real—they didn’t exactly embrace a full spectrum of body diversity either. Instead, it was a curated selection of women who could make the tokenism feel palpable.

Frankie’s attention wasn’t captured by the models at all. Instead, she was fascinated by the musical performances. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing at the stage.

“Me,” I said, proud to show off my knowledge.

“No, it’s Lisa,” Frankie corrected, the absolute authority on all things K-pop.

“Oh,” I said, a little deflated.

“Remember when I loved Blackpink in seventh grade? She was in that band,” Frankie continued, and I realized that her awareness of these things was far more nuanced than I’d initially given her credit for. It wasn’t about the glittery wings or the lingerie at all—it was about the musical acts and her own cultural references.

When Tyla performed—during the black-and-gold lingerie and wing portion of the evening—Frankie was glued to the screen, not for the models but to see if Tyla would do the “super inappropriate” Tyla Dance. (She didn’t.)

“I’m impressed they got Tyla and Lisa,” Frankie admitted, her gaze still fixed on the stage.

The big question came up when we both paused for a moment, staring at the display of skin, glamour, and excessive pageantry: “Okay, but is this good for women? The whole show, I mean.”

“Are you insane?” Frankie shot back, but with the kind of tone that meant she wasn’t really angry. “Obviously, this isn’t good for women. They would never put on a show like this of basically naked men.”

“But it’s good to have women of all sizes, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to rationalize the inclusion of a few models who weren’t the typical size-zero Angels.

“Mom, you know that’s bullshit, right?” Frankie said, using a rare swear word that she’d picked up from me. “They’re not celebrating women’s bodies. They have a few models who aren’t stick-thin, and they’re pretending they’re body-positive. It’s tokenism. It’s bullshit.”

And there it was, the raw truth from a 15-year-old. Frankie saw it all for what it was—corporate tokenism trying to pretend it was progressive when in reality, it was still stuck in the past. She wasn’t fooled.

So, how do I sum up the 2024 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show? It was a parade of models that felt like a walk down memory lane—Kate Moss, Tyra Banks, Carla Bruni, and some models who seemed long retired. The runway, set in an abandoned airplane hangar or what looked like a gigantic high school gym, felt as cold and hollow as the extravagance around it. Despite the towering wings (because of course, there were still wings), the models seemed lost in it all. And maybe that was just me projecting, but they looked uncomfortable—dwarfed by the spectacle.

Ultimately, it felt like a tired relic of the past, wrapped in a new coat of tokenism for the sake of inclusivity. My daughter saw through it, and I saw it through her eyes. In the end, it wasn’t a cultural moment; it was a moment in time that should’ve passed long ago. But here we are.