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My first byline in a national magazine appeared in the August 8, 1995, issue of Woman’s Day under the headline “What’s Sabotaging Your Diet?” Woman’s Day, that bastion of the checkout line, was known for unironic covers featuring decadent desserts under headlines about healthy eating. This particular issue’s cover featured the title of my article over a photo of a chocolate cake frosted to look like a sunflower.I was 23, newly married, living in a studio in Brooklyn, and making $18,000 a year. I’d been an editorial assistant at the magazine for eight months and was eager for my first story. When the features editor said she needed a writer for a diet piece, I stuck my hand in the air.Almost as much as the byline, though, I wanted the advice. I was just under 200 pounds at the time and anxious to avoid crossing that dietary Rubicon. For the story, I talked with doctors and dietitians and got their best tips on staving off cravings, eating healthy, and keeping the number on the scale from creeping up any further than it had already.None of it helped.For years magazines assigned me similar stories while I continued to gain weight. In the ’90s and early 2000s, women’s magazines wanted as much diet content as they could print. For me that meant an extra source of income to supplement my meager pay, not to mention a career boost for an ambitious young writer.[Daniel Engber: Ozempic killed diet and exercise]My byline appeared under such headlines as “Prime Time for Pig-Outs,” in Fitness, and “Facing Fat,” in Self. I wrote so many diet and nutrition articles that I was even hired as an editor at the Journal of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics, of all places, writing more scientific fare, such as “From Aspartame to Xenical” and “Type 2 Diabetes on the Rise in Children.” At the same time, undone by emotional eating and stress, I gained an additional 30 pounds.No one has ever known so much about healthy eating and been less successful at following her own advice. For more than three decades, I fought a losing battle with weight gain. At its worst, in March 2017, my weight hit 298 pounds, a number I can’t believe I’m writing down for the world to see. At 5 foot 8, I now had a BMI of 45. Obese.I’ve never admitted my exact weight to anyone other than my doctor—even my husband didn’t know. Still, no one but me was ever fooled. I lived under the delusion that if I never told anyone, the number would not exist. I know what the world thinks of fat people. I’ve endured the way people eye my cart at the grocery store, how they watch what I order in restaurants. People never stop asking me if I’ve tried this or that latest dieting fad. The answer—always—is yes.I went through the low-fat craze, the low-sugar craze, the low-carb craze. I swore off eating after 7 p.m. I fasted intermittently. I tried Herbalife, SlimFast, Seattle Sutton, Nutrisystem, Weight Watchers, even a doctor-supervised weight clinic with expensive pills and powders. I joined gyms, signed up for a Couch to 5K race, bought a bike, bought a yoga mat, bought an elliptical trainer. Nothing worked. I would put in weeks or months of teeth-grinding work starving myself and exercising to lose 20 or 25 pounds, then watch it come back a couple of months later.Then, in September 2023, my doctor handed me a prescription for Mounjaro, a diabetes drug that, when used off-label, has been found to help patients lose weight. Mounjaro, like Ozempic and Wegovy and others, mimics the hormone GLP-1, which works to suppress appetite. Since I began taking the drug, I’ve lost almost 80 pounds with very little effort.Medical science has done what no diet-and-exercise plan ever could, changing my entire relationship with what I eat and when and why.I didn’t grow up fat, but I did learn how to diet at a young age, probably much too young. I was 9 or 10 the first time I restricted my meals, usually skipping breakfast, sometimes lunch too. I was an average weight, so no one suggested it to me. I just did it. I liked the ascetic feeling of missing a meal, that tightness in the gut. At 12 and 13, I would exercise to the VHS tape of 20-Minute Workout with my mother and my sisters. It was just something everyone did, part of learning to be an adult. In high school, I learned to cook. My mother would often leave instructions so dinner would be hot when she got home from work: spaghetti and salad, grilled chicken and roasted veggies, tacos. Usually the only indulgence in our house was my mother’s unappetizing low-fat ice-cream. It was easy to eat healthy when few of the food decisions were up to me. My senior year of high school, I weighed 132 pounds and wore a size 10.I didn’t think much about food because I didn’t have to. But unlike some friends I know—who don’t care at all what they eat, who treat meals like brushing their teeth, a necessary form of self-maintenance that doesn’t require much attention or result in much pleasure—I’ve always enjoyed food. I like the crunch of sunflower seeds on my salad, the melt of cheese on a burger.When I was in college, I took a part-time job at McDonald’s. I could walk there and, hey, meals were included. The freshman 15 suddenly turned into 30. I took a weight-lifting course and swam laps and bought a bike. I quit my fast-food gig for a part-time office job. Though the weight gain slowed, it never stopped.Throughout my 20s and 30s, I gained five to 10 pounds a year, a result not of frequent pig-outs but of small, daily failures: that one extra piece of pizza, a couple of Oreos after dinner, a slice of the office birthday cake. If I skipped breakfast, I would be ravenous by 11, with shaking hands and a foggy brain and no self-control. The author of “What’s Sabotaging Your Diet?” knew that missing breakfast was a problem, but if I was in a hurry to get out the door, sometimes I did just that.One of my worst triggers was bedtime. I can’t count the number of nights I lay in bed unable to sleep from hunger until I gave in and had a piece of toast, a little peanut butter. The author of “Prime Time for Pig-Outs” knew that eating late at night was bad, but I could either eat something or suffer insomnia.Stress could also trigger emotional eating. That job at the journal turned nightmarish when new management took over, fired the beloved editors I’d worked for, and put me in (temporary) charge of publishing the entire publication with a depleted staff. I was up at 6:30 a.m. and in bed at midnight, with no time in between for exercise or cooking, shoveling food in like a zombie between meetings.By the time I quit that job, I was 245 pounds and I was miserable. I had been interviewing experts and publishing diet and nutrition advice for almost a decade, and for just as long I’d been failing to make any of it work for me. I felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite. I started to think, Maybe this is it. Maybe I’m just going to be fat forever, and there’s nothing I can do about it.Diet is a word that now seems old-fashioned, like that wine-and-egg plan from Vogue that sometimes still circulates on social media, a holdover from a bygone era, along with pantyhose and memorizing phone numbers. Today we talk about healthy lifestyles, mindful eating, about getting fit and taking care of our bodies. Or we reject weight loss as a goal altogether, embrace body positivity, fat acceptance, health at any size.Dieting is out and self-love is in, except that it isn’t, not even close. The old women’s magazines are gone, for the most part—victims of a changing media landscape—but on Instagram and TikTok and Facebook and everywhere else, people are still looking for solutions. Give me something that works, they ask. Please.For years I wasn’t writing the diet articles just for readers; I was writing them for myself. I was both a cog in the toxic diet-media complex and its reason for existence. Each time I would hold out hope that the next recommendation would unlock my weight-loss success. I couldn’t blame the magazines or their readers for wanting it too, the one bit of advice that would work for them, that would finally make a difference.I would try, and fail, and try again. And I was getting very tired of failure.The first time my doctor mentioned bariatric surgery, I was desperate enough to consider it. I learned that in addition to losing part of my stomach, I would need to stick to a liquid diet both before and after surgery, and that some people experience severe side effects.Because losing body parts seemed a bridge too far even for me, I tried healthy-at-any-size acceptance instead, which was fine until it wasn’t. Last year at my annual checkup, my doctor told me that I was at risk of diabetes. As he poked at my toes, checking for gangrene, I decided I no longer had room for delusions. A friend had been telling me about Wegovy and the difference it was making for her, so I asked if my doctor could give me a prescription.His relief was palpable. Why, he wondered, had I waited so long?The first few days on Mounjaro, I felt mildly off—slightly queasy, like I might be coming down with the flu. Then, as my body adjusted, hunger returned, but not urgently. I would get full faster, sometimes after only a bite or two. Rich and heavy foods no longer sounded appealing. Gradually the effects would lessen, and then my doctor would up my dosage. The cycle repeated.All of a sudden, all the things I’d learned from writing those “tips and tricks” articles actually started to work. Cut back on carbs? Done. Eat lots of protein and veggies? A pleasure. No snacking after dinner? Easy.The real change, though, happened in my head. Thoughts of food—the background noise of my life for decades—were gone. I no longer had to white-knuckle my way through the day to lose weight. At a recent work event, a friend asked what we should do about lunch. “Huh, lunch,” I said. “I didn’t even think about lunch.”To say that this is a revelation is an understatement. It’s as though I woke up not in someone else’s body, but in someone else’s brain. It’s like a reset, a return to the way I felt when I was younger and could ignore food when I chose to, when it didn’t matter to me if I skipped an occasional meal. I don’t get shaky and foggy if I miss breakfast or am too busy for lunch. I feel, instead, a profound sense of freedom.Apparently this is the real effect of the drug: Scientists thought that GLP-1would work on the human gut, but it actually works best on the human brain, as Sarah Zhang reported in this magazine. The friend who told me about using Wegovy checks in with me regularly to share her own success, and she reports similar mental changes. “This must be what skinny women feel like all the time,” we say, and marvel that such a thing is possible.When I reached the 50-pound weight-loss mark, almost a year ago—a number so unreal that I almost thought I’d hallucinated it—I had my husband take a picture of me in the same blue-and-white sundress I’d worn in a similar photo two years earlier, when I was near my top weight. It made for the classic “after” picture, in which the changes to my body were now completely clear: My face and belly were thinner; my bust was smaller. I hadn’t hallucinated anything.Nervously, I posted the photos to my Facebook and Instagram accounts along with the announcement of the milestone weight loss. I felt vulnerable letting people in my life see that before-and-after comparison. But I’ve decided to open up about everything, to stop trying to fool myself by hiding. What was really sabotaging my diet, all those years, was the idea that if I kept pretending, I could be happy at my higher weight. I was not.The congratulations started pouring in. “Oh my God, you look great.” “Keep up the good work!” “Congratulations!” Then they’d message me privately: How did you do it?Maybe those people thought I’d be ashamed to admit that I use Mounjaro, but I’m not. Given my long history as a diet-tips pusher, dispensing all that pithy advice, I figure the least I can do now is be honest about the one thing that’s actually worked.[Shayla Love: Understanding desire in the age of Ozempic]I am no longer at risk of diabetes. Ten of the 80 pounds I’ve lost I did myself by cutting down on carbs and upping my protein intake. The other 70 were Mounjaro.My doctor asked me at my last visit whether I still found pleasure in food; some of his other patients on the drug have told him that they’re sad to have lost the intensity of their joy in eating. I still love a good melty cheeseburger, even if I don’t eat the whole thing anymore. I still love the crunch of sunflower seeds on my salad, even if I don’t drown it in dressing.I have at least another 20 pounds to lose to get to my target weight, but it’s unclear how long I can stay on Mounjaro. My insurer has approved my prescription through March 2025. After that, only some of my doses will be covered. If I lose all the weight, my doctor has cautioned me, the company may cut me off entirely.I’m not sure what would happen then. Many people who go off GLP-1 medications report regaining the weight. My husband has said that we might be able to scrape together enough money to pay out-of-pocket, but with our daughter getting ready to apply to college soon, that might not be realistic. The only thing I know for certain is that gaining the weight back is not an option. For my health, for my family, I’d have no choice but to go back to white-knuckling it through the day, relying on the “tips and tricks” that were never enough.And that scares me.

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House with solar panels in Fairfax Station, Virginia. | Robert Knopes/UCG/Universal Images Group via Getty Images Journalists are drawn to covering problems, and when it comes to housing, we know there are plenty. Earlier this month, I published a review essay on three new books about the housing crisis, and it might be easy to conclude, based on all the dizzying statistics and warnings, that little progress is being made. That would be a mistake. One of my favorite aspects of working at Vox is having the space to explore innovative and promising solutions, and this year we covered some really good ones in housing in particular. The kinds of ideas that, after I finish reporting, after I’ve finished asking sources all my toughest questions, leave me genuinely excited. Many of these policy ideas not only offer new, creative ways to increase our housing supply or get people into existing housing, but also help communities tackle other problems like blight and social isolation.  Here are six housing policy ideas I’ve reported on in 2024 that I feel (cautiously) enthusiastic about:  1. Converting abandoned strip malls into housing The Irondequoit Mall in upstate New York opened in the early 1990s and was once a bustling destination for the suburban town outside Rochester. But over time, as more retail shopping went online, the brick-and-mortar stores closed, leaving a lot of empty storefronts. One nonprofit housing developer had the idea to retrofit the mall’s vacant Sears department store into new affordable housing for seniors. Her team converted the empty building into 73 new rental apartments, connected to a new four-story multifamily rental building on the adjacent parking lot. Policymakers, researchers, and real estate developers are paying close attention to mall conversions like this one. Strip malls in particular offer some unique advantages for developers because they usually come with big empty parking lots that make it easier to build. Recent research estimated that converting just the top 10 percent of strip mall candidates could create more than 700,000 new homes across the country. In 2022, California passed a new law to help facilitate these kinds of conversions, and in 2023 the Biden administration released new guidance to help leaders and developers navigate the financing process.Unlike vacant office buildings, many abandoned strip malls nationwide are already decades old and require long-backlogged repairs. They can be real drags on their communities, and maintaining them can be more expensive than just demolishing and rebuilding. You can read our full story on this idea here.  2. Giving tenants cash instead of housing vouchers The Housing Choice Voucher program (known formerly as Section 8) celebrated its 50th anniversary this year, and while more than 2 million families currently use the subsidies to pay for housing, it’s often a dysfunctional process for those involved. One federal study found only about 60 percent of voucher-holders can even find a landlord willing to rent to them.  There’s quiet momentum building in Washington to use cash instead. Advocates think the cash-based approach might not only prove more effective, but also prove more dignifying for renters, and even save governments money — allowing them to focus more on providing services and building new housing. While policymakers are pitching the initiative as a modest inquiry, officials involved are keenly aware that a small pilot program could lead to massive, permanent changes to the bipartisan $30 billion annual program. You can read that full story here. 3. Mixed-income public housing, where local governments play the role of housing developer I first covered this idea back in 2022: It’s a new model for local governments to build more housing by taking over as developers that then own the newly created housing assets. The idea is to leverage relatively small amounts of public money to create a fund that could finance short-term construction costs.  I wrote about it again this year because the idea no longer just exists on paper. One place leading the way is Montgomery County, Maryland, which opened its first mixed-income apartment complex in 2023. With 268 units, it’s nothing like the ramshackle public housing you might typically imagine. It’s sleek and modern, with a fitness center and a courtyard pool. Other cities and states, including Chicago, Atlanta, and Rhode Island, have been moving forward with their own versions. I take some pride in this one because after we published our story in February, some folks in the Biden White House took notice and reached out to one of our main sources for a meeting. About a month later, a proposal supporting this idea was included in Biden’s 2024 budget, and Kamala Harris also backed it on the campaign trail. The idea was also elevated this year at the Bloomberg CityLab conference, and just this month San Francisco published a report affirming the model’s feasibility for their city. 4. Yes in God’s Backyard The YIGBY movement, an acronym for “Yes in God’s Backyard,” really kicked off in San Diego, where a local Black church turned its empty 7,000-square-foot lot into 25 apartments for seniors and veterans. The YIGBY movement is taking advantage of two different societal trends: Religious institutions across America are grappling with declining memberships and rising costs, with up to 100,000 churches projected to close in the next few years; meanwhile, cities desperately need more affordable housing. Last year, California passed a law that will make it easier for churches, temples, synagogues, and mosques to build housing, bypassing typical zoning rules that often block new development. The potential is huge: California alone has 47,000 acres of faith-owned land that’s suitable to build on. The idea is picking up steam. States from Hawaii to New York are organizing for similar legislation, and there’s even a federal bill to support these projects nationwide. It’s something of a win-win proposition: For religious institutions, it can be a way to fulfill their mission of helping others while putting empty land to good use and generating new sources of revenue. For cities, it’s a creative solution to their housing crises, and can also help many communities deal with abandoned or deteriorating buildings. You can read more about that here. 5. Putting factory-built housing and ADUs on community land trusts In August, I wrote about an innovative idea that combines three distinct affordability strategies. The experiment began in San Bernardino, California, on a single plot of land. First, they’re building homes in factories instead of on-site, which cuts construction costs nearly in half. Because the homes are built to meet the construction standards set by the US Department of Housing and Urban Development, they qualify for special financing options, meaning they can be produced more efficiently at scale. On top of that, the developers are adding an accessory dwelling unit (ADU) on the same property, increasing supply on the same plot of land. And lastly, they’re using a community land trust (CLT) to keep these homes affordable for future buyers. A local affordable housing group owns the plot of land the homes are built on, and the CLT will effectively limit how much the homeowners could resell it for when they’re ready to move on. The city of Palm Springs took notice and is now piloting the idea on three vacant lots the city owns. You can read the story and about the pilot’s first family here. 6. Affordable dorm-style living using empty downtown office space One reason we haven’t seen more office-to-residential conversions — despite a post-pandemic office vacancy rate approaching 20 percent nationwide — is because the economics of those projects often aren’t financially feasible. This kind of adult dorm project, however, addresses a lot of those economic concerns. The idea is to create smaller apartments with shared kitchens, bathrooms, and living spaces. In cities like Denver, these units could rent for between $500 to $1,000 per month (far below the city’s $1,771 median rent) while still turning a profit. The communal setup could cut conversion costs by 25 to 35 percent compared to traditional office-to-apartment conversions. I looked at three cities — Denver, Seattle, and Minneapolis — that are already strong candidates to pursue this idea thanks to recent zoning changes that allow for this kind of co-living. It’s a modern take on the single-room occupancies (SROs) that housed millions of urban workers in the early 1900s before cities banned them. While some might bristle at the small units, the central locations and affordable rents have the potential to be meaningful options for students, young professionals, service industry workers, retirees, and urban newcomers. You can read more about that idea here. The housing affordability challenges ahead are real, but a lot can change for the better when hard-working people pay attention. Lest you were worried, we’re not wearing rose-colored glasses over here. We’re going to keep watching how these ideas develop and what implementation actually looks like. We’ll bring you a progress report next year, as well as (hopefully) some new ideas to add to the list. Your readership and financial support make this kind of reporting possible, so thank you. 

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A memecoin is a cryptocurrency that, like most cryptocurrencies, has no inherent value. It is created to represent an internet meme, and its value is tied very loosely to that meme’s popularity; you could think of it as like owning stock in, say, a knock-knock joke. The most famous memecoin is Dogecoin, which was boosted by Elon Musk and refers to an internet-famous dog.More recently, people have fixated on a coin called Hawk, as in “Hawk Tuah,” the meme of the year. The coin was created by a team of crypto people and by Haliey Welch, the cute, blond 22-year-old woman who brought us that phrase over the summer. You may know this part of the story: In June, a man-on-the-street interviewer approached Welch, out on the town in Nashville, and asked her, “What’s one move in bed that makes a man go crazy every time?” She replied with perfect comedic timing, in a thick Tennessee accent: “You gotta give ’em that hawk tuah and spit on that thang.” This was very funny and went viral on TikTok and elsewhere. (Bryce Harper, the married and Mormon first baseman for the Philadelphia Phillies, imitated it on national television.) In the months that followed, Welch built an online brand as a relatable country girl turned “queen of memes,” selling trucker hats, meeting Shaq, launching an app named after her boyfriend, appearing in a bit on Jimmy Kimmel Live, and so on.Now she’s in hot water because Hawk’s value went almost immediately to pennies—but not before some insiders were able to turn a quick profit. In an effort to quell the outrage, Welch and the people she had worked with on the coin hosted a live broadcast on X in early December. Welch made a short, chipper statement at the beginning, and then an assortment of men talked for nearly an hour. The first, a crypto-world figure who went by Doc Hollywood on X but has since wiped his account, ranted at listeners, challenging them to consider whether they truly understood the importance of Hawk. “Hawk Tuah is a cultural meme that everyone knows here in America,” he said. “So, if you want to be part of this meme community—dope.” Welch piped up near the end of the stream simply to tell everyone that she was going to bed. “Anyhoo,” she said, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”[Read: Crypto’s legacy is finally clear]But she didn’t reappear the next day. Instead, she vanished from the internet for weeks. She stopped releasing new episodes of her podcast, Talk Tuah (great name), and was quiet even as some of the other people involved in the coin made public statements about its spectacular failure. Then, news broke last week that a handful of people would attempt to sue her foundation (listed in the complaint as the Tuah the Moon Foundation) and various other parties, and Welch published a statement. “I am fully cooperating with and am committed to assisting the legal team representing the individuals impacted, as well as to help uncover the truth, hold the responsible parties accountable, and resolve this matter,” she wrote on X on Friday.The people around her talked about the coin as a “community-building tool” and “a movement.” It was a fake currency that was artificially tied to a brief (and crass) display of charisma that took place months ago. The notion that the online-creator economy could somehow transmogrify this incident into profit for a whole “community” of strangers—that those strangers had come together around the meme in some meaningful way, and that it would be able to change all of their lives—is magical thinking that has to be unique to our times.The original Hawk Tuah joke was good, but it was such a slim piece of IP. How much could really be milked out of something like that? It was just a moment, hardly anything. Yet it was inescapable. There was so much Hawk Tuah this year. How much of it was real? As it turns out: not as much as it seems.The way Welch has told the story on her podcast, she initially spent weeks hiding from the Hawk Tuah meme, barricaded in her bedroom, streaming rom-coms. She was embarrassed by the joke, which she had told while drunk, and horrified by the number of people who had seen it. A friend persuaded her to come out of her room only because other people were profiting off her—selling bootleg merch and getting views on their own videos that used the clip. It would be silly not to get her own piece of the pie, especially because the pie might soon be gone. By July, she was everywhere.I became more interested in Welch in August, when she threw out the first pitch at a New York Mets game. She was there to raise money for an organization that gives service dogs to disabled veterans, and of course did not make any reference to oral sex. But people were furious nonetheless. Sports journalists and rude Mets fans were apoplectic, screaming that she had cursed the team and ruined the season. The gist was that Hawk Tuah was tacky and unbecoming for America’s pastime (though no one seemed to mind when Bryce Harper did it). Welch responded to this with good humor. In the weeks that followed, she consistently posted about the Mets’ magical playoff run and cheered them on with bizarre Photoshopped pictures of herself as Mrs. Met and Tom Seaver (which people, again, hated). She posted a photo of herself watching the Mets on TV in a hotel room and a video of herself watching the Mets on a phone while in a bar (“She’s so me for this,” I texted my baseball group chat). This was surprising—part “Kill ’em with kindness,” part troll. I came away with the impression that Welch might be an amusing, smart woman with an open mind who had allowed life’s twists and turns to make her into a sincere baseball fan.This was my projection, and other people had different ones. Though Welch never talked about politics, some embraced her as a MAGA icon: The earliest homemade Hawk Tuah merch paired the catchphrase with images of Donald Trump. But Trump haters were curious about her too, and they celebrated when she declined to come out as one of his supporters. (After a Trump impersonator showed up to her meet and greet on Long Island, she told a reporter for New York magazine that she’d deliberately avoided being photographed with him.)Perhaps because Hawk Tuah was so little to work with and there was no broad agreement about its cultural significance, the business strategy seemed to be to throw things at the wall and see what stuck. In October, I spoke with Welch’s manager about interviewing her and then emailed to ask him what events she had coming up. He replied with a litany: “We are going to be dealing with Halloween with her costumes at Spirit Halloween (1600 stores). Shooting new episodes for her podcast #2 Comedy and #5 overall, Launching her jewelry line—The Haliey Welch Collection—an international mobile game, and a Meme coin. More to come …”Around this time, I watched a bunch of episodes of Welch’s podcast, Talk Tuah. The earliest episodes were stilted and amateurish, but kind of interesting. In one, she sits on her front porch with three hometown friends and awaits her grandmother, or “Granny,” with whom she lives. Granny arrives in an old Ford sedan, and Welch teases her for referring to the rosé that the group is drinking as “liquor”; they rehash the surprise of Haliey’s sudden fame while Granny pets a dog. The episode ends with a drive to Taco Bell.Welch is eminently likable, and her guests respond well to her easy openness and folksy manner of speaking (she uses the word “conversate” and the phrase “I don’t guess”). They want to know more about her, and so, over the course of the show, the Hawk Tuah IP expands mostly through further discussion of it and of the way that it changed Welch’s life. For several episodes, she teased the reveal of a secret boyfriend, whom she referred to only as “Pookie.” I felt genuine suspense waiting to find out who he was (and how he felt about the Hawk Tuah phenomenon). He turned out to be a plumber named Kelby (he thought it was all great; he felt a little uncomfortable at Soho House).I did not watch the episode “I Told Mark Cuban About Pookie’s Pickle,” so I can’t tell you what went on there. But every episode I have watched involves a meta-discussion of Welch’s newfound fame and the hostile reaction that Welch has gotten from certain corners of the media, particularly from men. Talking with the television personality and former Playboy bunny Holly Madison, Welch says that an antagonistic interview with Bill Maher took her “for a spin.” In an episode featuring the Barstool Sports personality Brianna Chickenfry, Welch talks about her surprise that Barstool Sports’ founder, Dave Portnoy, said that nobody would listen to her podcast, because nobody would care what she had to say. “Kiss my ass, Dave,” she tells the camera.After the presidential election, there was much discussion of the role that podcasts had played, as well as some half-sincere consideration of whether the Democrats might need to find a “liberal Joe Rogan” to help them win votes next time.My co-workers and I speculated briefly that Welch could fill the role—she was politically uncommitted and seemed to have the attention of young men. This was suggested by New York magazine, which noted the presence of a group of eighth-grade boys outside her event, as well as by her affiliation with the famous YouTuber Jake Paul. (His company, Betr, produces Welch’s podcast.) The list of sponsors that bought ad space on her show also implied a predominantly male audience, if one slightly older than 12 (20 percent off a Manscaped razor with code TUAH).But the closer I looked at Welch’s empire, the stranger it seemed. The first episode of her podcast has about 2.7 million views on YouTube; the Mark Cuban episode has about 276,000. Talk Tuah debuted near the top of Spotify’s and Apple’s podcast charts, but fell quickly off both of them. There are no fan accounts dedicated to documenting her every move—just a few engagement farmers who stopped posting months ago.[Read: The only thing worse than talking to Joe Rogan]The most telling thing was the comments on her podcast episodes on YouTube. Virtually nobody is responding to anything that she says in the videos. Instead, for almost every episode, the comment section is full of people pretending to be huge fans and making ludicrous claims about the power of the Hawk Tuah meme. For instance, “I was sick with an incurable disease but then i turned on talk tuah i was healed almost instantly.” Others claim that broken bones healed or that a dead man levitated out of his coffin. A standout described losing an eyeball to a rubber bullet at a protest against then–Hungarian Prime Minister Ferenc Gyurcsány in 2006, then having it restored by watching Talk Tuah. Another that I am still thinking about: “Im an infinitely old cloud of sentience … The only thing that sustains me and maintains all the laws that hold the universe together is watching the talk tuah podcast.”The crucial fact of life online, taking stock at the end of 2024, is that it is harder to tell whether anyone is serious. It may also be irrelevant. What’s the difference between jokes and lies, between fandom and mockery, when a view is a view and a sale is a sale?Another common bit in the Talk Tuah comments is that the viewer is seated and listening while eating their daily Lunchly, in reference to a Lunchables dupe launched by Jake Paul’s brother, Logan, and the YouTube star known as Mr. Beast: The snack is mostly famous for being gross. When Jake Paul appeared on Talk Tuah, Welch pitched him the idea of a line of pickles, and he amiably agreed to invest. “You could do some damage in the pickle arena,” he told her. “We make it into another meme where people are watching the podcast, eating Lunchly, and eating the pickles.” Whether this was something that anybody would actually do—or something they would just say they were doing as a joke—did not seem to matter to the business plan.Later, when onlookers were basking in the bizarreness of the memecoin situation, they circulated an X post in which someone claimed to have lost all of their money. “I am a huge fan of Hawk Tuah but you took my life savings,” the person wrote. This was almost certainly not true, but was taken as a symbol of the state of American culture nonetheless. Then it found its place in history when it was immortalized by @dril, the longtime avatar of the internet’s id, who wrote, in reference to the memecoin meltdown, “@HalieyWelchX wheres my money . you ahave ruined my life. im being followed by the governors men. please open DM. Love the pod.”That, along with whatever money she’s made this year, is likely what Welch will have to show for her misadventure as an internet celebrity. And honestly? Not bad.

A couple walks in a snow-covered park. | Atta Kenare/AFP via Getty Images It’s the most wonderful time of the year. No, not Christmas. Or Hanukkah. Or Kwanzaa. Or even the 11th anniversary of Beyoncé’s surprise self-titled album.  Nope. It’s cuffing season. At least that’s what listener Antares thinks. She called Explain It to Me — Vox’s call-in podcast — to ask if cuffing season is real.  “So in my understanding, cuffing season is an actual season which occurs between about October-ish and lasts until the weather starts to get good again,” she says. “During that time of year, people tend to want to find somebody to date — casual or otherwise.” Antares called in for an ex-boyfriend-turned-platonic-friend who has been struggling on dating apps recently. “I wanted to tell him that cuffing season is right around the corner and he might have better luck. But is that true?” The term “cuffing season” likely got its start in New York during the 2000s. The oldest reference online is from Musa Murchison. Murchison is now an artist and researcher, but back in 2008,  they were a student at Brooklyn College, hosting a weekly radio show called “Cuz We Said So Radio.” On November 17, 2008, the topic of discussion was to cuff or not cuff. “‘Cuffing season’ is not jargon I made up. It was New York jargon,” Murchison says. And Murchison believes it’s real. “I don’t know many people who aren’t into a good snuggle when the winter rolls around. We’re designed to be together, whether that’s romantic or platonic.”  I have to admit, Antares’s question sparked my inner Carrie Bradshaw. I couldn’t help but wonder … is cuffing season real? When the temperature drops, do our romantic prospects heat up? To find out, I spoke with several people, including Alison Gemmill, a professor, demographer, and perinatal epidemiologist at the Hopkins Population Center. Gemmill says we don’t necessarily know if there are certain times of the year that people are more likely to get together.  “In terms of actual sexual activity, there’s not good data,” she says. “One pretty strong hypothesis is that there are holidays that provide ample opportunities for people to engage in sexual activity.”  Part of the reason we don’t know is that there’s just not much research out there. “Sexuality research is just underfunded generally in the US,” Gemmill says. For now, we can rely on something that’s worked for centuries: counting backwards on our fingers. “In the US, we actually see a very strong peak in births around August or September,” Gemmill says. “It’s very evident, and it occurs from conceptions that are happening around November and December.”  But without traditional data gathering, it’s hard to know whether this is causation or correlation. Also, not all dating results in sex, and not all sex results in a pregnancy or birth. “That’s why I think the evidence from the dating apps is really important,” she says. “We have to go to these nontraditional data sources as researchers to learn about basic human behavior, which is partnership.” Enter Michael Kaye, the head of branding for OkCupid, a dating app that asks users a series of questions about their lifestyles and preferences. When potential matches enter a dater’s feed, they’re presented with a percentage score based on how compatible the two swipers are. “There are thousands of questions in our app,” he says. “They’re obviously related to dating, relationships, and sex, but also anything that’s top of mind for Gen Z and millennial daters. So if there’s a topic that you’re talking about with your friend or your family member or your coworker, we’re adding questions about that to the app, because chances are you’re probably talking about it on a date as well.” Daters’ answers can offer insight into what they’re looking for, and when.  On this week’s episode of Explain It to Me, we find out what we know — and don’t know — about the best time of year to cuff it up. Below is an excerpt of my conversation with Kaye, edited for length and clarity.  You can listen to Explain It to Me on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get podcasts. If you’d like to submit a question, send an email to askvox@vox.com or call 1-800-618-8545. What are the peaks and valleys of dating throughout the year?  If we start at the beginning of the year, there is a holiday for us within the dating space that’s called Dating Sunday. I thought people were pranking me when they told me. This is our Super Bowl.  There’s a Super Bowl of dating?  It’s the biggest day for online dating, and it falls on the first Sunday in January. So this is where we at OkCupid and Hinge and Tinder and Match.com tend to see a skyrocket in activity and engagement on the app.  We then see another bump in activity during Valentine’s Day. So if we look back at Valentine’s Day 2024, there was a 109 percent increase in daters on OkCupid who said it’s more important for them to find their forever person right now over being able to date around for a while.  Last year, between October and December there was a 26 percent increase  in people saying, “I’m looking for my forever person right now. I’m not looking for something casual. Great if you are. That’s just not for me.”  How do those cuffing season metrics compare to our hot girl summer metrics?  There are still bumps in activity and engagement, but the intent with which they’re going into this dating app experience is different.  There are two areas that we look at to help us figure out a little bit more about user behavior. One is what they’re looking for, whether that’s long-term dating, short-term dating, or friendships. I will say most users don’t actually change that that often. So we also look at how daters are answering our intent-based questions: “What’s more important to you right now: love versus sex?” “What are you looking for right now?” “How long do you want your next relationship to last?” We pay a lot of attention to those questions and how people are responding to them. Last year, there was a 14 percent decrease in people looking for love over sex June through October; that means that there’s an increase in people looking for something more casual. How do you measure these peaks in dating?  First, we’ll start with downloads. That really spikes during Dating Sunday. But then also we’re seeing likes and messages and conversations spike as well during this time.  Sundays in general are a really great day for online dating throughout the entire year. Dating Sunday is significantly higher than those other Sundays, but if we look week by week, Sunday afternoons are the busiest time for dating apps in general.  Do people match more during cuffing season, too? We actually asked our daters this week if they believe cuffing season is real. What we’re finding right now is that 63 percent of people believe cuffing season is real, and they’re looking for love right now. And more than half of people said they are actually going on more dates during fall and winter compared to spring and summer.