If you’re interested in modern beauty standards, the social value of femininity, and the fetishization of mothers in American culture, Hulu’s recent reality show The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives is a rich, chaotic product. I watched the entire series in a couple of days, gasping and Googling, shriveling inwardly every time I caught a glimpse of my haggard self in the mirror compared with these lustrous, bronzed, cosmetically enhanced women. The stars of the show are young wives and mothers in Utah who have become notable in a corner of the internet called MomTok; their online side hustles include performing 20-second group dances and lip-syncing to clips from old movies, the financial success of which has helped them eclipse their husbands as earners. As an encapsulation of 21st-century womanhood, it’s almost too on the nose: a discordant jumble of feminist ideals, branded domesticity, and lip filler.
The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives is a logical end point for lifestyle-focused reality television, which has never quite been able to decide whether women should be gyrating on a pole or devoutly raising a dozen towheaded children. This show bravely asks: Why not both? “We’re all moms; we’re all Mormons. I guess you could say a lot of us in MomTok look similar … We’re just going off based [on] what’s trending,” Mayci (28, two kids) explains in the first episode. The camera cuts to the women filming a video. “Mayci, I need you to twerk your ass off, as hard as you can,” Jen (24, two kids) shrieks. Jessi (31, two kids) comments on the volume of Jen’s cleavage, amplified by her breastfeeding garments. Each woman has waist-length, barrel-curled hair and teeth as white as Mentos; most wear jeans and a tight Lycra top. No children are in sight. What we’re watching isn’t the kind of dreamy domesticity that traditional momfluencers post on Instagram. It’s something more interesting: the conflation of “motherhood” as an identity with desirability, fertility, and sexual power.
America loves mothers more than women, an inclination the 2024 election has demonstrated in abundance. Mothers are given license to do things that other women often aren’t, like getting angry or even seeking political power, as long as it’s understood that whatever they’re doing is on someone else’s behalf. In a commencement address to a conservative Catholic college earlier this year, the Kansas City Chiefs kicker Harrison Butker even advised the female graduates in his audience to forgo careers altogether and focus on supporting their husbands as homemakers. The women of MomTok, while pushing back against some of the strictures of the Mormon Church, are living out this advice to a curiously literal degree. They’re financially supporting their husbands as homemakers, thanks to social media. “Who is currently, like, the breadwinner at home?” Demi (30, one child) asks at one point. “I think all of us?” Mayci replies. This looks like progress—women making money, at home, with the flexibility to set their own schedule and pick their own projects. But underlying this portrait is a darker reality: The only women who get to succeed at this kind of “work” are the ones who look the part.
The women of MomTok aren’t tradwives, the smock-wearing, Aga stove–warmed, calf-snuggling performance artists who fascinate and perplex us on social media. The Secret Lives mothers flirt and assert their independence and critique the men who try to control them. Some got married as teenagers after unplanned pregnancies; several are divorced. (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints issued a statement ahead of the show’s release noting that “a number of recent productions depict lifestyles and practices blatantly inconsistent with the teachings of the church,” seemingly in reference to a widely publicized scandal involving one cast member that’s the least interesting part of the series.) Late in the season, Demi plans a girls’ trip to Las Vegas that includes VIP tickets to Chippendales, which prompts an alarming conflict between the more traditional Jen and her husband, Zac, whom she’s supported through college and is about to fund through medical school. Zac, despite having been given $2,500 by his wife to gamble on the trip, is furious that she’d agree—even as a joke—to see a male dance show. He threatens to take their kids and divorce her. “This type of behavior is exactly what MomTok is trying to break in our LDS faith,” Demi tells the camera. “We’re not doing this anymore.”
But even as they reject what they see as the suffocating confines of one institution for women, they’re bolstering another. The pursuit of a certain kind of highly maintained beauty for all eight women on the show seems to dominate everything else. In one episode, while getting Botox injections, several of the women gossip, semi-scandalized, about the fact that Jessi drank alcohol from a flask at Zac’s graduation party; the irony that they’re in that moment high on laughing gas administered to ease the pain of the injections seems lost on everyone. In a different episode, Jessi tells her friends that she’s getting a labiaplasty, which she refers to as “a mommy makeover,” because childbirth has changed the shape and appearance of her vulva. Plastic surgery, Mayci explains, is tacitly sanctioned by the LDS Church (though LDS leaders today caution against vanity); Salt Lake City has more plastic surgeons per resident than Los Angeles.
“We wanna make sure that we’re taking care of our bodies, and we’re always told that our body is a temple,” Mayci adds during the Botox episode. “It’s actually surprising that [the Church doesn’t] really care about plastic surgery?” The moment underscores the space for interpretive tension within a faith that discourages toxins while prizing beauty in all its forms as a reflection of morality and a source of happiness. And yet it’s hard not to read this show another way: as evidence of a specific online culture that encourages women to bear children while also requiring them to erase the visible evidence of their pregnancies. The physical toll of giving birth is covered up, made as inconspicuous as the children who have left these same marks. That these mothers be beautiful and desirable in this realm is paramount.
In one sense, this is what reality television has always wanted from women. Those who can exude sexuality from the safety of the domestic sphere have long been able to build lucrative businesses in the process. In 2022, a writer for Bustle counted 52 separate beauty lines launched by stars of the Real Housewives franchise, who leveraged their fame to sell perfumes, wigs, nail polish, “firming lotion,” and false eyelashes. But the Secret Lives stars are notable for how intricately their brands are enmeshed with fertility—not the mundane reality of day-to-day motherhood but the symbolic power of sexual eligibility and maternal authority. On Secret Lives, Mayci is seen launching Baby Mama, a line of “natal supplements” for women. No one on the show seems to question the primacy of beauty. After filming wrapped, Layla (22, two children) revealed in a podcast interview that she’s had six separate cosmetic procedures over four months. “I had kids young, and I love my babies to death, but they screwed up my body, and I wanted to feel hot again,” she said. Her co-star Demi added, “That’s just the Utah way!”
Women who don’t accept—or can’t meet—these terms are, tellingly, less visible on the show, and thus less able to leverage their new fame. Mikayla (24, three children), a doe-eyed, strikingly beautiful woman who struggles with a chronic illness that causes skin flare-ups gets sidelined; she has no primary storylines of her own, and much less screen time than the others. This gravitation toward more visibly perfected stars stems perhaps from the aspirational ideal that momfluencers represent, as Sara Petersen writes in her 2023 book, Momfluenced. “As mothers, our everyday lives are full of gritty motherhood rawness, of children refusing to wear snow pants in blizzards, or the strain of holding back tears and curses upon stepping on another fucking Lego.” She adds, “Why would we want to spend our spare time consuming someone else’s rawness when we’re sick and tired of our own?”
The women of MomTok are enthralling because they symbolize the possibility of a mother’s desirability and influence—and of a broader sisterhood. They are, with the exception of the one stock villain, Whitney (31, two children), impossibly likable, funny and scrappy and unserious. They constantly invoke their sliver of the internet as a pillar of friendship and prosperity—as in “I really want this MomTok group to survive,” and “We need to get back to what MomTok was before all this happened.” Taylor (30, three children) says that the group built its following in the hope of changing people’s attitudes about Mormon women—and making space for them to be bolder and more outspoken than the norm. But all of the women on the show seem to have wholly absorbed the idea that to be heard as mothers in America, you first have to be seen, in high-definition, expensively augmented perfection.
In her 1991 book, The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf noted that the proliferation of sexualized images of women in music videos and television and magazines toward the end of the 20th century represented “a collective reactionary hallucination willed into being by both men and women stunned and disoriented by the rapidity with which gender relations have been transformed: a bulwark of reassurance against the flood of change.” The same dynamics have since been amplified a thousandfold on TikTok, where you have precisely one second to hook someone who’s idly scrolling. The politics of visibility are more loaded than ever. Beauty, as Wolf wrote decades ago, has fully taken over “the work of social coercion that myths about motherhood, domesticity, chastity, and passivity, no longer can manage.” The lifelong project of self-maintenance used to be, for women, a distraction from recognizing the things we really need. Now it’s the most valid and laudable form of labor.
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