“Your mother’s perception of your body does not define you,” was a quote I stumbled upon on Instagram, shared by the Fierce Fat Femme. It hit me like a blow to the gut. This sentiment struck a chord deep within me. Like many others, the shame and scrutiny related to weight have been a generational burden in my family.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in over three years, and despite that, my life is filled with joy and stability. Yet, even after giving birth to four wonderful children, I still find myself standing in front of the mirror before a shower, instinctively sucking in my abdomen. I pull at the extra skin around my lower belly, a reminder of my recent childbirth, and fantasize about what it would be like if I could simply eliminate it all.
Each morning, I rush past the mirror in our living room on my way to drop the kids off. I can’t afford to pause and look; doing so would send my anxiety soaring if I feel I’m “hanging out” anywhere. If I let myself get distracted, I’d become self-conscious while driving with my children or feel exposed as I walk my son through the crowded preschool halls.
Every day, I battle these emotional demons. That’s what happens when your mother and grandmother pass down their issues with body image, fat phobia, and disordered eating.
In high school, I watched my mother remove all “snack foods” from the kitchen, replacing them with meal replacement shakes. She told me that drinking one for breakfast and lunch would prevent my tummy from “spilling over the sides of my pants.” My grandmother supported this misguided plan.
Those pants were a size 4—my favorite American Eagle bootcut pair—just before my freshman year. A week later, I broke down in tears when I discovered the hidden stash of snacks in a bedroom drawer. Crackers, chips, and granola bars were out of reach, all to keep me from being tempted by delicious treats while I was expected to drink chalky shakes.
I often felt hungry in my own home, ashamed to even open the fridge when anyone else was around. If they deemed my body unworthy of a snack at a size 4, I could only imagine their judgment of me now. I could feel their eyes scanning my body, assessing my worth based on my size.
When I returned home from college, my mother and grandmother would comment on how “skinny” I looked, assuming my size 4 pants were too big. They were curious about my secrets to staying thin, oblivious to the fact that I was starving myself. I was dangerously restricting my calories, working out late into the night until I was dizzy, and relying on water to dull my hunger pangs.
Yet, because I was thin, they thought I looked beautiful.
I understand that this is a complex issue. My mother and grandmother believed they were acting in my best interest, trying to make my life easier by making my body smaller. They, too, were victims of their own insecurities and unhealthy attitudes towards food, having never learned to appreciate their bodies.
This isn’t an excuse for their harmful behavior—it caused me lasting pain—but it reflects a broader multi-generational and socio-cultural issue.
I don’t have all the answers, and I continue to confront this struggle every day. But I am determined to break this cycle for my children. I passionately support the body positivity movement, recognizing it as one of the most powerful uses of social media. I respect and love people of all sizes and shapes, finding beauty in every form. I wish I could extend that love and confidence to myself.
I’m committed to working on this for myself, my children, and future generations. I hope my daughter will never feel the need to suck in her stomach or flatten her figure. I pray my sons will never allow a number on a scale to dictate their mental health.
The cycle of body shame stops here.
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Summary
This article explores the impact of generational body image issues within a family, highlighting the author’s personal struggles with self-image rooted in her mother’s and grandmother’s attitudes toward weight and food. Through her journey, she advocates for breaking the cycle of body shame for future generations.