In the glittering chaos of New York City’s fashion scene, Angel Reese, the 23-year-old WNBA sensation from the Chicago Sky, stepped into a spotlight far removed from the basketball court. On October 15, 2025, during the revived Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show—a spectacle that returned after a six-year hiatus amid the brand’s turbulent rebranding efforts—Reese made history as the first professional athlete to grace its iconic runway. Draped in delicate lace lingerie and ethereal angel wings, she strode confidently twice across the stage, her athletic poise blending seamlessly with the show’s high-glamour vibe. Flanked by supermodels like Bella Hadid and Gigi Hadid, alongside gymnast Suni Lee and a diverse array of transgender, pregnant, and plus-size models, Reese embodied the event’s fresh ethos of inclusivity and empowerment. Backstage, she beamed, telling reporters, “I manifested this moment last year when I attended the show. It was destined for me.” The crowd erupted, and social media lit up with clips of her poised walk, hailed by fans as a triumphant fusion of sports and sensuality.
Yet, this dazzling debut came just weeks after a deeply personal and raw revelation that has now cast a long shadow over her triumph. In early September 2025, Reese appeared on a tearful episode of her podcast, Unapologetically Angel, where she opened up about enduring months of relentless sexual harassment. Her voice cracking with emotion, she described anonymous online threats laced with explicit demands, invasive paparazzi encounters that veered into uncomfortable territory, and even unsettling interactions from industry insiders during her off-season brand deals. “I’ve been made to feel like my body isn’t mine,” she said, wiping away tears. “As a Black woman in this space, it’s exhausting to constantly defend my worth beyond the court.” The admission struck a chord, sparking widespread support from fellow athletes like Caitlin Clark and Serena Williams, who praised her courage in a league still grappling with the objectification of women’s bodies. Advocacy groups, including the Women’s Sports Foundation, amplified her story, using it to highlight the pervasive issue of harassment in female-dominated sports.
Reese’s vulnerability seemed to humanize her further, transforming her from the brash, rebounding phenom—nicknamed “Bayou Barbie” during her LSU days—into a relatable icon advocating for boundaries in a hyper-scrutinized world. Her disclosure led to tangible action: She partnered with a mental health initiative for young athletes and vowed to channel her platform into anti-harassment campaigns. Fans rallied, with #ProtectAngel trending on X, and her jersey sales spiked 25% in the weeks that followed. It was a narrative of resilience, one that aligned perfectly with the WNBA’s growing cultural footprint, where players like Reese aren’t just competitors but cultural disruptors.
Fast-forward to the Brooklyn venue of the Victoria’s Secret show, and the juxtaposition felt jarring. There was Reese, not in sweats and sneakers, but in barely-there ensembles that celebrated the very sensuality she had so recently decried as exploitative. The brand, long criticized for its hyper-sexualized imagery that alienated broader audiences, has been on a redemption arc since 2021, ditching its “Angels” exclusivity for a more body-positive lineup. Reese’s inclusion was touted as a win for athletic representation—her powerful stride in emerald-green lace and feathered accents drawing comparisons to a modern Venus Williams on the court. She even quipped post-show about trading her “Smashburger” college diet for high-fashion fittings, a nod to her grounded roots that endeared her to viewers. Performances by Karol G, TWICE, and Madison Beer added to the electric atmosphere, livestreamed across YouTube, Instagram, and Prime Video, pulling in millions of viewers eager for the show’s nostalgic return.
But as the confetti settled, the backlash erupted like a powder keg. Critics, particularly in women’s rights and sports media circles, pounced, branding the move as the pinnacle of hypocrisy. “How do you cry foul on harassment one minute, then monetize your sexuality the next?” fumed commentator Jemele Hill on X, her post amassing over 50,000 likes in hours. Online forums like Reddit’s r/wnba and r/blackladies buzzed with divided opinions: Some celebrated Reese’s agency, arguing that owning her image on her terms subverts the very predators she called out. “She’s flipping the script—harassment takes without consent; this is her choice,” one user wrote, garnering thousands of upvotes. Others weren’t convinced, pointing to the power imbalances in fashion’s underbelly. “Victoria’s Secret isn’t some feminist utopia; it’s a gateway to the same predatory industry,” another commenter warned, echoing long-standing allegations of exploitation behind the brand’s glossy facade.
The hypocrisy charge gained traction in op-eds and viral YouTube breakdowns, with titles like “Angel Reese COOKED: Played Victim Then Walks in Her Underwear!” dominating feeds. Detractors argued that Reese’s pivot smacked of calculated branding—a savvy ploy to pivot from victimhood to vixen, boosting her marketability ahead of a potential Chicago Sky trade amid the team’s rocky 2025 season. After all, Reese missed 14 games due to injury and drew a suspension for candidly critiquing her squad’s talent pool, fueling trade rumors to contenders like the Dallas Wings. Her VS appearance, complete with a modeling coach to “perfect her walk,” felt to skeptics like less empowerment and more opportunism, especially as the lingerie giant’s rebrand has been accused of performative wokeness.
Reese’s defenders counter that this binary framing—victim or vixen—reeks of the misogyny she first exposed. In a follow-up Instagram Live on October 20, she addressed the uproar head-on: “I shared my pain to heal, not to be boxed in. Walking that runway was me reclaiming my body, not selling it out.” Fellow WNBA star Sophie Cunningham, inspired by the strut, even begged her agents for a VS slot, signaling broader appeal among athletes. Reese’s off-court empire—endorsements with Reese’s Puffs cereal and her eponymous fashion line—suggests a deliberate diversification, one that challenges the notion that Black women in sports must choose between toughness and allure.
At its core, Reese’s saga underscores a deeper tension in 2025’s cultural landscape: the tightrope women walk between vulnerability and visibility. Was her harassment disclosure a genuine cry for support, or a narrative device to amplify her star power? The truth likely lies in the messy middle—authentic hurt leveraged into unapologetic ambition. As the WNBA offseason drags on, with Reese eyeing new horizons, this unexpected turn has only amplified her enigma. Love her or loathe her, Angel Reese refuses to be defined. In a world quick to judge women’s bodies, her runway revelation serves as both mirror and manifesto: empowerment isn’t linear, and hypocrisy, perhaps, is just another word for complexity.
