Last night I persuaded myself to go to the gym by promising myself that I could watch an episode of America’s Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders at the same time. And while it got me through 30 minutes on that cursed treadmill, it made me hate the world a bit, too. 

If you don’t know what I’m on about, allow me to fill you in. The Netflix documentary (which has been in the top 10 since its launch on 20 June) follows a group of women auditioning to be cheerleaders for the Dallas Cowboys, whose cheer squad, we’re told repeatedly, is the most famous and influential in the world. There’s a mix of rookie auditionees and previous team members, and at the helm are Kelli (the team’s terrifying, perfectionist director) and Judy (the choreographer), who are in charge of whittling down hundreds of hopefuls to just 36. 

This is a world where everybody is judged on their bodies. And that assessment is through a very literal, narrow lens. Wannabe cheerleaders are described as “not having the DCC look”, which we all know is code for not thin or pretty enough, while others are criticised for being too short, scrawny or even too nervous. The women’s make-up skills are called into question, they’re given makeovers and told that once their uniforms are fitted to them they can’t be altered – so woe betide you if you get your period, bloat or change shape. It’s their bodies that must change to adapt to the uniforms.

I also couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as many of the Black and Asian dancers, such as Anisha, whose Bollywood audition blew me away, were evicted from the competition for not having the right technical skills. These are women who can jump in the air and land in splits.

Previous cheerleaders also talk about crumbling hips and shoulder pain: one former cheerleader, who is only in her mid-20s, is in recovery from hip reconstruction and foot surgery caused by her years on the team. 

But it goes beyond physical pain. There are women struggling with their mental health and past trauma. Victoria is a dancer who’s reauditioning for the team (they all have to reaudition every year) and is desperate for validation from Kelli and Judy. In previous years, she’d been told she needed to lose weight. As she talks candidly about her struggle with binging and purging, I would have liked the film’s director, Greg Whiteley (who also created Cheer), to press her on how or if that correlated with her experiences on the DCC. It felt like a missed opportunity. 

If you think all that pain and hard work goes hand in hand with financial compensation, think again. Despite the Dallas Cowboys being the biggest NFL franchise and valued at $8 billion (£6.2bn), the cheerleaders are paid the equivalent of “a full-time Chick-fil-A worker”, with many also having to work second jobs despite the very, very long training hours. 

The team’s brand director and daughter of the Cowboys’ owner, Charlotte Jones, says: “There’s a lot of cynicism around pay for NFL cheerleaders, as [there] should be. They’re not paid a lot. But the facts are, they actually don’t come here for the money. They come here for something that’s actually bigger than that to them. They have a passion for dance. There are not a lot of opportunities in the field of dance to get to perform at an elite level. It is about being a part of something bigger than themselves. It is about a sisterhood that they are able to form, about relationships that they have for the rest of their life.” 

My colleague Meena (who must take the blame for introducing me to it) has complex thoughts, too. 

“The contradictions of this world is what hooked me in: the way Kelli talked about her squad as a sacred sisterhood of undying support and mutual empowerment, then zoomed in on pictures of the girls’ faces in front of them, critiquing everything from their brows to their bronzer.

More fascinating, still, was the season’s star rookie, Reece. A devout Christian, engaged to the first boy she’s ever dated, she admits to “shaking” when he puts his arm around her, and yet she oozes sexuality when she dances in a way I can only dream of. At a Dallas Cowboys game, all eyes are on her. In her audition, her style is deemed so spicy that one of the judges asks to pause the event so he can fan himself.”

None of this is criticism of the women who want to join the team. They’re all incredible athletes who have a dream they’re desperate and determined to fulfil, and it’s impossible not to get swept up in their joy and disappointment as they move through the process.  Their resilience is deeply impressive – politely responding “yes ma’am” when their dreams are smashed rather than screaming in anger or wailing on the floor (it’s me). 

They’re all hugely supportive of each other, despite often being pitted in competition. It makes me question a structure where women are expected to make themselves smaller and more palatable to cheer on men. It makes me want to know more about the origins of this representation of femininity and why it’s still so sought after to such extreme effect. 

And yet, I’m saying all of this and feeling all of these feelings and I’m still watching it. Why? What’s wrong with me? Is it that I’ve been so conditioned by decades of watching reality TV that I expect and accept judgment and value being placed on women’s bodies? And simply know that we’ll always be paid less for working as hard?

So, while I can’t promise I won’t watch the final two episodes of the documentary (I will, and it will be tonight), I am determined not to let it leak into my own perception of body image or my own sense of self and continue our mission at Stylist to champion all women. 

Images: Netflix