How peptides rebranded the steroid cycle for the Instagram age

For those of you that were online in the early 2010s, you’ll remember a skinny-to-shredded teenager named Aziz Shavershian.

Known online as "Zyzz," he became the patron saint of a new kind of fitness religion. His gospel was simple: aesthetics above all.

Zyzz and his "aesthetic" crew were transparent about their lifestyle. That was: partying, gym sessions, and the poorly hidden secret of anabolic steroids. While the world watched in a mix of horror and fascination, a generation of young men was radicalised into the idea that a needle was a shortcut to a god-like physique.

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Today, despite his tragic passing, the spirit of Zyzz hasn’t vanished; it’s simply gone to finishing school.

The raw, aggressive imagery of the steroid era has been replaced by the sleek, minimalist aesthetic of "biohacking."

The neon-lit gym basements have been swapped for high-end wellness clinics and minimalist "research" websites. We are no longer talking about "stacking" Dbol; we are talking about "optimising" via peptides.

This new alchemy is a rebranding of performance-enhancing drugs (PEDs). And it has turned the grey market into a wellness revolution.

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The most effective trick of the peptide wave is the language.

Steroids carry a heavy social stigma. Thoughts of "roid rage," acne, hair loss and problems with your package are somewhat of a deterrent. Peptides, however, sound clinical, natural, and sophisticated. Defined as short chains of amino acids that occur naturally in the body, peptides like BPC-157, Melanotan II, and CJC-1295 are marketed as "signalling molecules" rather than drugs.

In the hands of modern social media creators, these substances are framed through the lens of longevity and health. Influencers don't talk about getting "huge". They talk about "cellular repair," "growth hormone secretagogues," and "metabolic efficiency."

By stripping away the bodybuilding jargon and replacing it with the vocabulary of a Silicon Valley startup, the fitness community has made self-injection feel like a virtuous act of self-care.

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The transition from pills to needles used to be a significant psychological barrier.

For decades, "pinning" was the line in the sand that separated the casual gym-goer from the hardcore user. That line has been erased by the mainstreaming of GLP-1 agonists like Ozempic and Wegovy.

As millions of people now use self-injectable pens for weight loss, the "fear of the needle" has evaporated. This cultural shift has created a vacuum that the grey market was happy to fill. If a doctor prescribes a peptide for weight loss, the logic goes, why shouldn't an influencer recommend a peptide for tanning, muscle growth, or injury recovery?

The "Ozempic effect" has inadvertently acted as a gateway. One that has made the act of injecting unregulated substances from a "research only" website feel like a minor lifestyle tweak rather than a major fkn medical gamble.

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Unlike the steroids of the past, which were often traded in gym parking lots, peptides are sold in broad daylight.

A simple Google search leads to professional-looking websites that sell vials of powder with elegant branding.

These companies survive on a legal technicality: the "Not for Human Consumption" label. By categorising these potent drugs as "research chemicals," sellers bypass FDA oversight. However, the social media creators who promote them, often through "educational" videos that stop just short of a direct endorsement. And they know exactly who the "researchers" are: 19-year-olds looking to fix a shoulder injury or get a six-pack before summer.

This creates a dangerous information gap. A creator talks about the "miraculous" healing properties of BPC-157 without mentioning that most data comes from rat studies, not human trials. So they are essentially conducting a massive, uncontrolled experiment on their audience.

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The danger of this New Alchemy is the illusion of safety.

Because peptides are "natural" amino acids, users assume they lack the side effects of synthetic hormones. But the body is a delicate feedback loop. Artificially stimulating growth hormone or melanin production can have systemic consequences that we are only really just beginning to understand. These range from heart issues to the acceleration of undiagnosed cancers.

And because these substances are unregulated, there is zero guarantee of purity. "Research" vials have been found to contain heavy metals, incorrect dosages, or entirely different substances. We are seeing the same fallout we saw in the Zyzz era--organ stress and hormonal shutdowns. But it’s being masked by a "healthy" glow.

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History tells us that our obsession with the "ideal" body will always find a chemical accomplice.

In the 70s, it was the "breakfast of champions" (Dianabol); in the 2010s, it was the "aesthetic" steroid boom. Today, it’s the peptide wave.

The platforms have changed from bodybuilding forums to TikTok. The vials have prettier labels. But the core issue remains.

We are still outsourcing our self-worth to substances we don't fully understand. And we're being guided by influencers who are more concerned with engagement than epidemiology.

As we look back at the fallout of the steroid era, we should ask ourselves: ten years from now, what will we call the "longevity" influencers who led their followers into the unregulated world of the New Alchemy?

The needles may be smaller, but the stakes are just as high.

 -Sophie Randell, Writer

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