My Mom Never Uttered the F-Word

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Growing up, I never heard my mom say that word—fat. It must have lurked somewhere in our house, but she kept it hidden, perhaps contemplating it in large letters as she carried me, a healthy 9-pound baby girl. Maybe she worried about her own body as she prepared to fit back into her retro bell bottoms after I made my grand entrance. I can imagine her standing on the bathroom scale, feeling the pinch of frustration, or eyeing the glamorous women on TV, thinking, “I should lose a few pounds.” But I was in another room, engrossed in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, blissfully unaware. My mother was careful with her words.

Despite her thoughts, I never heard her speak that word aloud. I was just a little Italian girl, and food was a fundamental part of my life—essential and comforting. I cherished my mostaccioli as much as I loved my home or my treasured doll. Food was love, and love was endless bowls of rich meat sauce and crispy, breaded veal.

As I grew up, I transitioned from a slender 7-year-old to a self-conscious 12-year-old, hiding behind books at the dinner table. I ate when I was hungry and turned to stories when I craved something more. Little girls blossom into women at different paces; one moment, my world felt small, and the next, I was hungry for everything beyond my doorstep.

I discovered the complexities of womanhood during visits to my grandmother’s house, where my aunts lounged in oversized shirts and shared tales of beauty and their struggles with body image. They would paint my nails, dress me in their clothes, and fill my ears with songs. They dreamed of being thinner or curvier but embraced life and loved me unconditionally.

At home, however, discussions about diets or body image were virtually nonexistent. While I might have heard, “Finish your meatloaf,” as I navigated mashed potatoes, I never got a “You really don’t need another cookie.” I didn’t think about dieting or ever considered myself fat. To me, that word had no meaning.

It wasn’t until middle school that I finally heard my peers use it. In the locker room, I listened as girls expressed their insecurities: “I’m so fat!” “Who are you kidding? You’re a size 3; I’m the fat one.” I was perplexed. To me, they looked normal, maybe even slimmer, but I observed the bizarre competition. Was this self-deprecation a rite of passage? It seemed the girl who felt the fatter won.

Confused, I locked myself in the bathroom at home to scrutinize my reflection. I stood on a step stool, taking in my wide hips and soft curves. Was I fat? I tried the words on for size, whispering them to myself: “You are so fat.” They felt harsh. “I am fat.” The words made my stomach twist. “You’re fat!” I repeated, searching for validation but finding none.

Just then, my mom knocked on the door. “Dinner,” she called. I pulled on my shirt and stepped back into the light. Dinner was steak, buttery mashed potatoes, and broccoli—comfort food that pushed aside the chaos in my head. We chatted about school and my latest book, focusing on what mattered most. I may have appeared distracted, battling thoughts that still confound many women. I felt like she might want to guide me through these uncertainties, but she had already given me the gift of silence. In that quiet, I learned the strength of unspoken words.

So, my mom never uttered a word about it.

This article originally appeared on September 18, 2015.

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In summary, I grew up in a household where discussions about body image and dieting were avoided, thanks to my mother’s carefulness. This shaped my understanding of food and love, allowing me to navigate the complexities of womanhood with grace. Our dinner conversations were filled with warmth, leaving behind the harsh judgments often associated with weight.