Growing up, I never once heard my mom say the word “fat.” It must have been lurking somewhere in our home—maybe she thought it in bold, glaring letters while she carried me, a hefty 9-pound baby. Perhaps she worried about her body changing and how she’d fit into her favorite bell bottoms after I made my entrance into the world. Maybe she considered voicing her frustrations as she stood on the bathroom scale or glanced at the glamorous women on magazine covers. “I should shed a few pounds,” she might have thought. I could have been in the next room, absorbed in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, either blissfully unaware or hyper-aware. But my mother was cautious.
Even if those thoughts crossed her mind, she never spoke them aloud. I was oblivious to the weight of that word and what it might signify for a woman.
As a little Italian girl, food was deeply ingrained in my upbringing—it was comfort and love. I adored mostaccioli the same way I loved my childhood home or my Little Orphan Annie doll. It was always present during family dinners and Sunday gatherings. Food was synonymous with love, and love was represented by hearty plates of meat sauce and tender veal.
Thus, I grew up, transitioning from a slender 7-year-old to an awkward 12-year-old, hiding behind books while at the dinner table. I ate freely when I was hungry and read when I craved something more profound. The transformation from girl to woman happened slowly on the outside, but internally, it was a sudden shift. One day, I viewed my world from a limited perspective—my home, my parents, the bus stop. The next, I was eager to explore everything beyond my familiar surroundings.
I started to decode the complexities of womanhood during visits to my grandmother’s house. My aunts would sleep late, waking in oversized nightshirts and high ponytails. They would paint my nails if I asked, and I’d try on their clothes while absorbing their discussions. They lamented their bodies—their hips, the weight they wished to lose. They had boyfriends with cars, and they talked about restrictive diets, subsisting on tuna or hard-boiled eggs. Sitting on the countertop, we’d sing along to The Supremes. They were my first introduction to young womanhood, full of life, even if they wished for different bodies.
But at home, such topics remained untouched. We never discussed diets or exercise. Food was simply a necessity and a joy. I never felt pressured to think about my weight—my mom might have said, “Finish your meatloaf,” but never, “You don’t need another cookie.” Dieting wasn’t in my vocabulary, nor did I ever feel I was fat. That word held no significance in my life.
It wasn’t until middle school that I began hearing other girls use it—often in the locker room after gym class, fastening their button-fly jeans. “I’m so fat!” “Please, what are you, a size 3? I’m the fat one here.” I listened, intrigued, observing the strange competition of self-deprecation. It was a jumbled conversation where no one truly spoke to each other. Unlike my aunts, there were no discussions about diets or workouts—just aimless words spinning around. It seemed the girl who claimed to be the thinnest but felt the fattest won the prize.
I was perplexed. To me, the girls looked perfectly normal—maybe even slimmer than I was. When I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom. Stripping off my bulky sweatshirt, I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror, standing on my little brother’s step stool for a better view. I tried to assess myself objectively, but was I fat? How could I even tell? Did I need to be fat to say it?
I practiced saying the words aloud, letting them bounce off the shower walls: “You are so fat.” They felt harsh. “I am fat,” I whispered, watching my lips move but not believing it. “You’re fat!” I repeated, but it felt wrong.
My mother knocked on the bathroom door, jolting me from my thoughts. “Dinner,” she called. I stepped down from the stool, dressed again, and turned off the light, pushing away the swirling thoughts.
Dinner was hearty—steak, buttery mashed potatoes, broccoli, and milk. I tried to focus on our conversation about school, music, and the book I was reading. These were the things that mattered at the table. I might have seemed distant, lost in thoughts I knew adults still struggled with. Perhaps my mother noticed changes in me, might have wanted to address them, but she stayed silent, having given me the gift of her discretion and understanding the strength of what remains unvoiced.
So, my mom never uttered that word.
For more insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this resource. If you’re interested in fertility boosters, this site has great information. And for more on insemination techniques, click here.
In summary, the author reflects on the complexities of body image and food perceptions in her upbringing, contrasting her mother’s careful silence on weight with the more vocal insecurities of peers later in life. Through personal anecdotes, she illustrates the profound impact of unspoken words and cultural expectations surrounding body image.