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I started my first diet at the tender age of seven. Despite being perfectly healthy and active, with sun-kissed skin and scraped knees to show for it, I was thrilled to join my mom on this new journey. It was a bonding experience, just like the exercise videos she’d play on repeat, the yoga sessions we shared every morning, and the aerobics classes I attended with her at the gym, clad in leg warmers and leotards. I admired her deeply and wanted to emulate everything she did.
Although she never explicitly stated that being overweight was something to be ashamed of, the message was clear. By her mid-thirties, she had stopped wearing shorts, claiming her legs were “too heavy,” despite weighing no more than 110 pounds at the time. The few spider veins she developed during pregnancy seemed to haunt her self-image. She often reminisced about weighing under a hundred pounds when she married my dad, emphasizing that it was after having two kids. To anyone else, she was the epitome of beauty in the 80s, slim and graceful.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was heavier. Ironically, this was one of the traits I cherished most about her. I loved her soft, cozy body and the way her lap was always ready for me. Yet, the narrative I absorbed from both my mother and grandmother revolved around how beautiful Grandma used to be. “She wasn’t always heavy,” my mom would say, as if her past slenderness were a redeeming quality. A photo of Grandma in her youth, glamorous and vibrant, hung on the wall—a reminder of what she once was. The unspoken sentiment was clear: she was once prettier.
When I reached eighth grade, my mom became concerned about my eating habits, believing I was consuming too much. I may have gained a few pounds, which is common during adolescence, but she never considered that I might be eating more out of hunger due to our financial struggles. After my father left, we relied on food stamps and boxes of canned goods from the “Rural Crisis Center.” With the fear of running out of food looming over me, I would eat with urgency. Perhaps my mom didn’t realize how deeply affected I was by the embarrassment of my friend’s parents telling her she couldn’t stay over because we “didn’t have any food.”
Food represented stability; its absence meant hardship. But indulging in it meant I would become “fat,” which was equally bad.
I never had a chance at a healthy relationship with food or my body. Not a single chance.
My mother admits that this is a generational issue. “I used to be terrified of gaining weight,” she confesses now that she’s older and more accepting of her body. “I remember Grandma crying while trying on bathing suits. They would warn me that weight gain ‘sneaks up on you!’” These warnings from both her mother and grandmother, who were round and matronly, were punctuated with shared moments over tea or while snapping green beans in the garden. My mom was a skinny child, often embarrassed by her protruding collarbones, and her loved ones worked tirelessly to prevent her from facing the same fate, instilling their fears into her.
Decades spent avoiding weight gain ultimately condemned me to repeat the cycle.
I can’t remember the last time I felt content with my body; perhaps I never have. My weight fluctuates, and my eating habits swing chaotically from “I don’t care” to obsessive calorie counting. Regardless of my strong heart and muscles or the fact that this body has nurtured and birthed children, I refuse to wear shorts. I find myself fixating on the sagging parts, the cottage cheese thighs, the same broken capillaries my mom lamented.
I search for validation in the mirror, but it’s no surprise that I can’t find it. I don’t know how to look elsewhere.
My mother believed she was doing me a favor by teaching me these habits, just as her mother had done for her. She didn’t intend to be unkind; she thought she was equipping me to avoid a lifetime of weight-related worries. However, all she succeeded in teaching me was how to prevent myself from ever truly loving who I am.
For more insights on self-care and body acceptance, check out this other blog post. If you’re interested in starting your journey toward parenthood, you can find great resources at Make a Mom or explore ASRM for valuable information on pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary:
The author recounts her struggles with body image stemming from her mother’s own insecurities about weight. From an early age, she was influenced by her mother’s attitudes toward food and body shape, leading to a lifelong battle with self-acceptance. Despite being healthy and nurturing, the author finds it challenging to embrace her body, reflecting on the generational curse of body dissatisfaction that has plagued her family.