Toy manufacturer Mattel has been on a mission to modernise its image and stay relevant in this increasingly inclusive and socially conscious world, and last month introduced its first Barbie doll with type 1 diabetes.
Mattel is the toy giant that built its empire on Barbie and Hot Wheels and has been criticised for reinforcing narrow beauty ideals and gender roles, eventually leading to the redesign of Barbie in 2016.
Barbie was seen as a symbol of unattainable perfection, and in the face of falling sales and calls for diversity representation, Mattel redesigned Barbie to re-enter cultural conversations more positively.
And so, they brought out some special editions: Barbie with a wheelchair, Barbie with a prosthetic leg, Ken doll with vitiligo, Barbie with hearing aids, alopecia Barbie, Barbie in a doctor’s or nurse’s outfit, career dolls in STEM, politics and firefighting and Barbie wearing a hijab.
In 2022 Mattel released a new doll as part of a Barbie Tribute Collection that was said to be inspired by openly transgender actress and activist Laverne Cox. Though not labelled Transgender Barbie, the doll was promoted as a symbol of inclusion, self-expression and empowerment.
A year later Barbie with Down syndrome was released, and now we have Barbie with type 1 diabetes — a doll in a blue polka dot dress symbolising diabetes awareness, with a phone that displays an app tracking her blood sugar levels, a continuous glucose monitor secured with heart-shaped pink medical tape and an insulin pump attached to her waist.
Let’s give Mattel credit where it’s due. These efforts are meaningful, particularly for children living with conditions often ignored in mainstream narratives.
But let’s not pretend the work is done — or that the changes aren’t wrapped tightly in layers of perfect hair, luminous skin, bright big eyes and photogenic symmetry. Even with the 2016 revamp that saw a shift away from the decades-old Barbie model that — reimagined in human form — would have been incredibly tall, unable to hold her overly large head up on her skinny neck with an enormous bust, her waist too small to accommodate internal organs and too thin to menstruate.
And so the Curvy, Tall and Petite ranges were introduced, designed to reflect more realistic and diverse body types, skin tones, hairstyles and facial features.
Curvy Barbie — more proportional than classic Barbie with fuller hips, thighs and arms — in human form would be a size 14 woman with a flawless face and an Instagram-worthy wardrobe. Tall Barbie would be 1,85m tall and weigh about 60kg, pretty much runway model dimensions.
The Laverne Cox Barbie may be beautiful, fierce and iconic, but she’s still statuesque and idealised. We might be seeing symbolic progress, but we’re still gazing into a distorted mirror.
Because for all the disability representation and cultural nods, one figure remains consistently, glaringly absent: the ordinary, average-looking, healthy, sturdy child. Where is the Barbie with soft arms, a roundish belly, freckles or an overbite? Where is the doll with an awkward haircut and clothes that don’t fit quite right?
In Mattel’s world, even the “diverse” dolls remain filtered through a lens of perfection. The faces are conventionally beautiful and the bodies, while altered slightly, remain slim, symmetrical and polished. It's a sea of inclusion — but only if you're the right kind of different.
So here’s the uncomfortable question: if Barbie is meant to reflect all girls, why is the normal, unremarkable child — the one who’s not sick, not disabled, not model-thin and not exceptional — still invisible?
She’s the girl with crooked teeth, sturdy thighs, big feet, frizzy hair and dreams that don’t come with built-in sparkle. She deserves to be seen, too.
Until then, Mattel’s inclusivity feels more like a curated showcase of socially acceptable difference, rather than a full embrace of what it truly means to be a real girl.
