“Your mother’s perspective on your body isn’t a reflection of who you are,” is a quote I recently stumbled upon on Instagram, which really struck a chord with me. I felt as if I had been hit in the stomach. This sentiment resonated deeply; like many others, I carry the weight of generational shame and judgment surrounding body size and weight.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in over three years, and I am living a joyful and stable life. Yet, even after giving birth to four beautiful children, I still find myself standing before the mirror each morning, sucking in my stomach. Just four months post-partum, I tug at the excess skin around my abdomen, wishing I could simply erase it.
As I rush past the mirror in our hallway on my way to drop the kids off, I know I can’t afford to pause and look. If I do, anxiety will consume me, making me feel exposed as I navigate the preschool halls with my son. Each day is a struggle against the emotional demons that haunt me, a burden passed down from my mother and grandmother, who both battled their own body dysmorphia and disordered eating.
I recall how, during my high school years, my mother purged our kitchen of all “snack foods,” filling the fridge with meal replacement shakes instead. She insisted that drinking these would keep my stomach from “spilling over the sides of my pants.” My grandmother supported this misguided initiative. Those pants were a size 4, my beloved American Eagle bootcut jeans, during the summer before my freshman year.
A week later, I sobbed when I discovered the hidden snacks—crackers, chips, and granola bars—stowed away in a bedroom drawer, out of my reach. I was left feeling hungry in my own home and ashamed to open the fridge when others were around. If my body was deemed unworthy of a snack at a size 4, I shudder to think how my mother would perceive me now, scanning me from head to toe, judging my size.
I remember returning home from college, receiving comments from my mom and grandmother about how “skinny” I looked. Those once-comfortable size 4 jeans were now too big. They would ask what I was doing to maintain my weight and compliment my appearance, unaware that I was starving myself and severely restricting my calories. I would exercise until I felt faint after long shifts as a waitress, using water to quell my hunger pains.
I understand that my mother and grandmother believed they were acting in my best interest, thinking they were helping me by making my body smaller. They too struggled with self-worth and had a distorted view of food. Yet, they clearly didn’t consult a healthcare professional before implementing their plan.
While I don’t absolve them of their actions—because they have caused me lasting pain—this is a multi-generational issue rooted in socio-cultural norms. The cycle of body image issues continues to be pervasive and toxic.
I’m still navigating this battle daily, but I have children now, and I refuse to allow them to inherit this struggle. I am a strong advocate for the body positivity movement, which I believe is one of the most powerful uses of social media. I cherish and respect individuals of all shapes and sizes, finding beauty in diversity. If only I could extend that same love and protection to myself.
I’m committed to breaking this cycle for my children. I hope my daughter never feels compelled to suck in her stomach, nor my sons to let a scale dictate their emotional wellbeing. This cycle must end here.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the impact of generational body image issues within her family, detailing personal experiences and struggles with body dysmorphia passed down from her mother and grandmother. Despite living a fulfilling life, she grapples with feelings of inadequacy and strives to break this cycle for her children, advocating for body positivity and self-acceptance.