Parenting
I’m plus-sized. My daughter is plus-sized. Together, we’re one fabulous woman and one fabulous girl. And you know what? We’re pretty darn amazing.
But it wasn’t always this way. Before my daughter came into the world, I raised my fist to the universe and pleaded, “Please, just don’t let me give birth to my own reflection.” Spoiler alert: no one was listening.
So here I am, a plus-sized woman determined to be the kind of mother I didn’t have growing up—a mom who doesn’t care about societal judgments on looks or weight and definitely won’t be shoving diet shakes down her daughter’s throat to appease others. I aimed to be the warrior who arms my girl against the cruelty of the world.
First things first: I needed to show that being plus-sized isn’t something to be ashamed of, and I had to live that truth. It sounds like a big task, but honestly, it was just about being me—a regular mom who happens to be plus-sized. I walked around confidently, embraced my body, and never engaged in conversations with other women about dieting or body-shaming.
I was like a plus-sized influencer in the world of selfies; for someone my size, that level of self-love is a radical statement. I wanted my daughter to see that I am valuable, and every stride I took was a step of confidence rather than a timid retreat from my size.
Throughout her life, I’ve never been on a diet or discussed dieting in front of my daughter. My mother, bless her, has been on a diet since I was born. I’ve never seen a gray hair on her dyed head or a wrinkle on her face—only the countless diets she’s tried.
As a child, my mother obsessively monitored celebrities like the ever-changing Stevie Nicks. “Back to the fat farm,” she’d say about her like it was a casual greeting. As a girl, I wasn’t worried about ending up in the “fat farm,” I was just curious—did it come with chocolates or was it more like a scene from a dystopian novel? I quickly figured it was the latter, judging by my mother’s scornful comments, later concluding it was just lipo.
Despite the low bar set by my upbringing, I managed to steer clear of “fat farm” discussions with my daughter. You take the wins where you can find them, after all.
One day, everything came to a head when my daughter came home from school as a tiny second-grader. It’s one thing to model confidence in a bubble, but when your child steps into the real world, you face some harsh realities: Do you embrace body positivity or deny it?
I chose to embrace it.
“Mom, do I have a pregnant belly? This kid said I look like I’m going to have a baby.”
It felt like an eternity before I responded, but finally, I said, “Yes, yes you do. And I do too, and we’re both awesome.” I hoped my established track record as a fabulous woman would lend credence to my words—that my foundation of body love meant something. I wanted my daughter to assess my “awesomeness” and determine if I was being genuine.
Denying her belly would have been dishonest, leaving her vulnerable. The best way to counter cruelty is with a “so what!” mentality, and it has to come from a place of believing in the beauty of one’s self. If your plus-sized child is going to flourish, you must start by affirming their bodies so they can ward off the hurtful comments that aim to sting.
“Your size is your strength,” I’d tell her, and I meant it wholeheartedly.
But then, there are the adults. Ugh, the adults. Especially those school nurses with their “good intentions” and unsolicited advice. At the start of every school year, I’d put on my armor to deflect their nonsense about weigh-ins, diabetes prevention, and “family health fairs.”
Not every school nurse was a concern troll, but I often found myself wishing for a school bully over the absurdity of the grown-ups. I made it clear on health forms: “Do not weigh my child. She has a pediatrician for that.” We didn’t need health fairs to learn how to cook “healthy” meals, thank you very much, and no, she does not have diabetes. And if I receive one more “BMI letter of shame,” I swear I’ll lose it.
In our home, BMI stood for “Bizarre Myth Indicator.” There are unhealthy thin bodies and unhealthy plus-sized bodies. A pair of eyes doesn’t grant anyone a medical license, nor does reading from a chart of numbers.
Yes, I might sound like a pretentious parent, but I spent years instilling in my child the self-confidence the world tried to take away, and I wasn’t about to let a few glorified clipboards undo that.
Now, it’s a waiting game to see if the cycle has truly been broken. I know my partner and I have raised a compassionate child who cares deeply for others and doesn’t seem to hate her size. While I can’t read her mind, I want to trust that what she shows me is real. If not, I hope she’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me, and we can navigate it together.
In the world of parenting, you pick your battles, and for me, this one is a win.
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Summary: This article reflects on the journey of a plus-sized mother raising a plus-sized daughter, emphasizing body positivity, confidence, and the importance of affirming one’s self-worth in a world that often promotes shame around size. The author shares their experiences, challenges with societal expectations, and the efforts made to raise a compassionate, confident child.