At around 8 years old, I began to feel the weight of the world—literally. It wasn’t a sudden revelation but rather a slow buildup of moments that led me to carry the heavy burden of body image issues into adulthood.
It all started with that scale outside the vitamin store, where for just a quarter, you could learn your body fat percentage and bone mass. Of all the shocking revelations, the one that stuck with me was the label of being “9 pounds overweight.”
Then there was my mother, a naturally slim woman who was determined to maintain her figure. I often accompanied her to the gym, donning my brightest leotard and legwarmers, soaking in the aerobics frenzy of the late ’80s. At home, we sweated it out to Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Oldies,” and I even joined in on his Deal-A-Meal diet plan.
Looking back, I know she meant well, trying to foster a love for fitness and healthy eating. Yet, as a child, I absorbed the underlying message: we needed to avoid being fat. My mother, having witnessed her own mother’s struggles with weight, was driven by the fear of me facing the same pain.
Now, as the mother of four sons, people often ask if I’m disappointed not having a daughter. Honestly, I’m not. While there are mother-daughter moments I sometimes long for, there’s a relief in knowing my sons won’t inherit the same societal pressures regarding body image.
That is, until last week when my 8-year-old son came home in tears. Taller than most of his peers and built solidly, he was teased during playtime when someone jokingly called him “fat.” The laughter that followed crushed his spirit, and he ran home, sobbing into my arms.
“But sweetheart, that’s not true!” I whispered, desperate to comfort him but unsure of what to say. “You’re strong, healthy, and fast.” But then he pointed to his stomach, saying, “This? Is fat.”
In that moment, my heart broke. My son was grappling with the same struggles that have haunted me and my mother. It hit me hard; I hadn’t shielded him from the very thing I thought boys were immune to: the anxiety over body image.
I’ve always admired how boys seem to have a carefree attitude towards their bodies, without societal expectations weighing them down. I let my sons poke at my squishy belly and answer their curious questions about my jiggly bits, thinking I was teaching them acceptance. But I never considered that they, too, might need guidance in loving their own bodies.
I would love to wrap this all up with a neat resolution, but how can I impart lessons I’m still grappling with myself? The truth is, conversations about body image are not just for daughters; our sons need them too.
So, while we navigate this journey, let’s remember that our boys are watching us. They need to learn about body acceptance just as much as our daughters do.
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Summary
As a mother of four sons, I realized that body image issues aren’t solely a female concern. After my son faced teasing about his size, I understood that conversations about body acceptance are crucial for boys too. It’s essential to model self-love and acceptance, as our kids are always observing our behaviors and attitudes.