Throughout my childhood, my mother was perpetually on a diet. The ’70s and ’80s felt like a haze filled with her obsession for cottage cheese, hot lemon water, and weeks of pink grapefruit. She munched on hard rye crackers that seemed like leftovers from a cardboard box—both in texture and taste. Despite her relentless efforts, she never found enjoyment in these foods and often lamented how she had ruined her metabolism back in the ’60s, comparing it to a pair of pants that had lost its elasticity and could never return to form.
In contrast to the controlling upbringing of some, where a mother scrutinizes every bite her daughter takes, my mother was completely consumed by her own caloric intake. While she never labeled me as overweight, the warnings from relatives—like my aunt cautioning me against a third slice of pizza lest I end up resembling my mother—left an imprint. My father echoed similar sentiments during his visits to ice cream parlors, making me question if indulging in a hot fudge sundae was acceptable.
Like countless other girls, I absorbed the messages about body image from my mother and others, often silently. It became ingrained that our bodies were subjects for public scrutiny. We learned to dissect our figures with the detached precision of a butcher assessing cuts of meat—an unhealthy relationship with our own selves.
This led to a tumultuous relationship with my weight from ages 14 to 20, swinging between an unhealthy low of 105 pounds and a high of 155 pounds. I was never taught about balance, exercise, or a healthy approach to food. In my household, eating felt like an extreme: either strict deprivation from enjoyable foods or overindulgence, such as slathering butter on multiple dinner rolls.
However, a turning point came when I began to listen to my body—recognizing hunger, thirst, cravings, and the satisfaction that comes from eating. This newfound awareness helped stabilize my weight, which has remained between 120 and 125 pounds for over 25 years. I now enjoy all foods in moderation, including bread, sweets, and alcohol. I’ve never been on a diet since becoming an adult, nor do I use that word around my two school-age daughters. Instead, we focus on physical accomplishments—like scoring goals or racing to the finish line—shifting the conversation from weight to strength.
I strive to model a healthy attitude toward food for my children. While I may not be a gourmet chef—my partner will affirm that—they start every day with breakfast, even if it’s simply a bowl of cereal. They drink water and skim milk, having never tasted soda. Their mid-morning snacks consist of apple slices or toast, and lunch typically features a lean meat and cheese sandwich paired with veggies. Dinner is a balanced meal, often including chicken or fish, vegetables, and a side of salad, followed by dessert every evening—something we share together.
They eat until satisfied, and then the kitchen closes for the night. Evening snacking is unnecessary for us; we feel content from dinner. My kids don’t struggle with their weight, and even if they did, I would emphasize discussions about health rather than weight. We would focus on fitness activities, like our new plan to walk to school or bike together on weekends.
I hold no resentment toward my mother for her struggles with food; she grew up in a different era without the wealth of information available today. She mirrored the negative societal messages she absorbed, and I know she never intended to pass those battles onto my sisters and me. While I can’t shield my daughters from the deluge of media images—like those from Victoria’s Secret or thigh-gap selfies—I can prevent them from inheriting my mother’s food issues by making food a non-issue in our home.
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In summary, I have navigated the complex relationship with food and body image shaped by my upbringing, ultimately fostering a healthier environment for my children. By focusing on balanced eating and promoting physical activity, I aim to break the cycle of food-related anxieties that plagued my past.