From the Liver King to ultramarathons, fitness influencers are glorifying extreme masculinity where ‘pain is the point’

A new Netflix documentary about a shirtless supplement salesman who claimed to be “natural” and was exposed as a fraud might seem like a punchline.

But Untold: The Liver King is more than just a character study of a well-known fitness influencer; it’s a case study of performative masculinity in the world of social media.

Brian Johnson, better known as the Liver King, built a brand on extreme workouts, eating raw organ meat, and evangelising about masculinity. He preached “ancestral living” and radical self-control, all while secretly using steroids.

And his rapid rise to popularity reveals how social media rewards the spectacle of hypermasculinity – especially when it leans into extreme behaviours.

Extreme self-discipline, extreme exercise, extreme eating and extreme “wellness” have all become forms of public performance on social media.

From influencers pushing steroids or “wellness” lifestyles, to the growing popularity of ultramarathons, a new model of masculinity is going viral: control your body, grit through pain, workout hard, and make sure everyone hears about it.

The rise of ‘discipline content’

Social media apps and websites such as TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram, are flooded with content that frames pain and extreme physical effort as markers of masculine worth.

One analysis of male fitness YouTubers found they established authority and discipline through a mix of visible physical strength and affiliations with commercial fitness brands. In some cases, the influencers explicitly listed their personal records or showcased their physique post-training as proof of their “masculinity” and discipline.

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Influencers also often frame extreme leanness and muscularity as indicators of moral virtue and discipline, even when achieving it has taken a negative physical or mental toll on them. The look of discipline has become more valuable than the outcome of it.

Posts are often wrapped in the language of “resilience”, “discipline” and militaristic rhetoric. Men are told to “go to war” in the gym, to “stay hard”, and to generally treat life like a battlefield.

What’s being sold isn’t stoicism: it’s pseudo-stoicism – a term researchers have coined to describe emotional suppression masquerading as strength and discipline.

Pain is the point

Strava’s 2023 Year in Sport report found Gen Z athletes are 31% less likely to exercise for health reasons compared to older generations. Instead, they are more likely to train with a focus on athletic performance – that is, to push their physical limits, improve metrics such as speed or distance, and outperform others.

The same report shows a surge in extreme endurance activity. Compared to 2023 data, uploads (activities shared with others) of gravel bike rides grew 55%, trail runs grew 16%, and ultramarathon-style workouts grew by 9%.

Take Nedd Brockmann, who ran across Australia in 2022, and last year ran 1,600 kilometres in ten days to raise money for charity – all while sharing his self-imposed physical torture.

Or take the countless fitness content creators pushing themselves through punishing routines for the camera.

These cases reflect a deeper shift of fitness being turned into spectacle, wherein suffering becomes a sign of legitimacy, and pain is “proof” that you’re serious.

Such extreme content, which is often visually striking, can also be pushed by social media algorithms. Research shows how social media platforms systematically boost content that is intense, emotionally charged, and morally loaded.

Read more: Get big or die trying: social media is driving men's use of steroids. Here's how to mitigate the risks

In other words, posts that provoke a reaction are more likely to get promoted. And content relating to “wellness” extremism is designed to provoke, as it is visceral, performative, and packed with motivational and self-help anecdotes.

Why this matters

This is a potential public health issue.

Social media platforms amplify and monetise these performances, often pushing the most extreme content to the top. And influencers make money, above the money made from directly these platforms, from selling supplements, gear and coaching plans. At the same time, they act in more and more extreme ways to get further amplified by algorithms.

The risks of this dynamic, for both the viewers and creators, are very real. They range from hormone damage, to mental and physical decline, to injury, and even death.

But there is also a deeper ideological harm, as young men are fed a narrow and punishing idea of what it means to be a man. They are taught pain equals purpose, and that if you’re not suffering, you’re not trying.

Where to from here?

Public health agencies need to reckon with this form of digital hypermasculinity.

Extreme fitness influencers aren’t just poor role models; they’re the product of a system that profits from insecurity and spectacle. The goal shouldn’t be to ban or censor this content. But we do need to challenge its dominance, and offer alternatives.

That means engaging young men in offline spaces, such as the Tomorrow Man project, where they have an outlet for community and relationship building.

It means creating counter-narratives that don’t mock, but model, healthier versions of ambition and masculinity. For instance, the Movember campaign’s podcast Dad in Progress explores the various challenges and experiences faced by new dads.

It also means holding platforms accountable for the way they amplify extreme content.

In the absence of healthier narratives, self-flagellation is the only thing young men will have to aspire to.