For some, the process of dismantling what Coffie calls “the Adonis complex” may begin by leaving small towns for places where we encounter more racial and body diversity — connecting with peers of color perhaps for the first time. One man I spoke to, who like me also grew up as one of few Asian Americans in a predominantly white suburb, says he never really thought about racial difference and body image in tandem, while admitting he always considered whiteness the standard ideal. It was only upon moving to a major metropolitan city and cultivating an Asian American friend group that he felt some comfort in comparing his body to theirs (rather than to white men who tend to have bigger frames), and found himself attracted to another man of his race. That he declined to be identified for this story speaks to how raw and personal such revelations are — and how a certain proximity to whiteness can be blinding to its effects.

But assimilation is a powerful instinct that can be tough to deny, no matter the racial makeup of your peer group or degree of reverse conditioning you might be able to achieve. In order to blend into a sea of white torsos, on Scruff or around the pool, a chiseled frame may feel like a universal prerequisite, but it represents a particular kind of currency for many men of color. “Having a fit body is like that invisibility cloak to provide entrée,” says Lewis Feemster, 32, a Black American art maker based in Harlem. “It doesn't really matter what race you are; fitting into the fit body party is about not disrupting the picture.” Feemster imagines the concept of inclusion as a kind of center point around which anyone considered “other” begins on the periphery. External characteristics, like a muscular body or Anglo features, can bring minorities one step closer to the middle, where the idea is that you become attractive to the most number of people.

Of course, fitting into majority white spaces goes well beyond physical appearance; code-switching or actively breaking down preconceptions based on race can often be part of the equation, too. Those stereotypes may include what others expect Black or brown masculine bodies to look like (including below the belt) or conform to, a scrutiny the men I spoke to felt more often from white men than their racial peers. “I know that when people are looking for a stereotypically attractive, muscular Black body, it may not be my body,” says Feemster, who grew up running cross-country and is relatively light-skinned. “I don't necessarily look in the mirror and compare myself to that.”

But opportunities for body comparison have also grown exponentially over the past decade — we carry them in our pockets, scroll through them endlessly, and sleep with them bedside every night. The ripped bodies we see are no longer just posing on billboards or magazine covers, but showing off their supposed everyday lives on a media platform we all share. On Instagram, a souped-up body can net not just social but real currency, for influencers who have narrowed the gap between what we perceive as absurdly aspirational versus just within reach. Social media may have democratized who holds the camera, but the dominant aesthetic still reigns — it’s just that now it seems anyone can achieve it. Maintaining a sense of what’s possible for our own bodies amid a proliferation of idealized imagery from our purported digital peers has become a trickier prospect.

“Sometimes the images that come across are just unobtainable — and I recognize it,” says Garrett Narvaez, 39, a human resources professional of Jamaican and Portugeuse descent. “But it still puts a lot of pressure on me because I feel like, even though I'm not going to achieve that, I still have to work hard to make sure that [my body is] acceptable.” Narvaez adds that he’s started to unfollow accounts he realizes fuel unhealthy pressures.

“I started to focus on what makes me happy versus things that make me feel like I perceive to fit in. You don’t have to have a six-pack to be a bad bitch.”

“We actually have more control now than before media was user determined,” says Parent, the Austin psychologist, pointing to the flip side of apps we curate for ourselves and whose algorithms respond to our likes and follows. “People also need to take ownership of their own actions and their contributions to the environments that they create for themselves.” That said, apps like Grindr and Scruff, where overt and subtle racism runs rampant, are far more inundative with harmful messaging over which users have little to no control. Parent suggests that for men of color engaging in these digital environments, “building up a support system, both interpersonally and within, is important to face that constant bombardment of negativity that white mesomorphic men may not be facing.”