The beginnings of my struggle with body image are a blur, like fragments from a distant film reel—disconnected and hard to piece together. When and how did it all start? There are a multitude of factors, all obscured by the passage of time, confounding my efforts to find clarity.
Perhaps it was during seventh-grade English class when I proudly wore my new jeans, only for a classmate to cruelly remark, “I didn’t know they made jeans that size!” Or maybe my battle with body image stemmed from my own perfectionism, an incessant inner voice insisting that I could never be enough. It could even trace back to my yearning for control, a natural consequence of growing up in a chaotic, alcoholic environment—my internal turmoil consuming me.
Decades later, one thing remains clear: I was desperate to be thin. And honestly, I came dangerously close to losing myself in that pursuit. Now that I’m fully recovered, I feel an urgent need to revisit my past, to find every clue that contributed to my eating disorders. My motivation? I have a daughter, and it’s my mission—my promise—to ensure she doesn’t tread the same path I did.
As a child, I wasn’t overweight; I was merely slightly above average. I know this not from memory but from photographs. If I relied solely on my feelings from that time, my perception would be skewed. The images, however, reveal the truth: I was not fat.
What I was, though, was the tallest girl in my class. Even in my kindergarten portrait from 1975, I stood taller than my peers. By junior high, I had reached 5-foot-10, and with a build that was never petite, I could not fit into the trendy size 3 jeans of the time. My hips were shaped for motherhood, not the idealized figure that preteens typically covet.
I first encountered the concepts of anorexia and bulimia through an article in a teen magazine. Despite its health warnings, I felt drawn to the idea that I could eat anything and lose weight—what a clever scheme! Instead of being repulsed, I absorbed the information, using it as a manual for bingeing and purging.
Eventually, my mother caught on. After reading my diary, she confronted me, and I remember the feeling of betrayal, oblivious to her concern because of my illness. If I were in her shoes now, I would undoubtedly take the same steps to protect my daughter.
Once exposed, I could no longer sneak food in privacy. Yet, my longing to be thin drove me to find new ways to hide my behavior, including vomiting in the backyard or even into a trash bag in my closet. The sour smell lingered, and I braced myself for dizziness as I felt the euphoria of my hands pressed against my flat stomach.
In high school, my bulimia transitioned to anorexia, leaving my once 5-foot-10 frame at a mere 109 pounds. Even after all these years, I can still picture the look of anguish on my mother’s face as she took prom photos of me, my collarbones jutting dangerously under my gown.
I was fortunate to recover fully, largely thanks to my mother’s unwavering support, counseling, and her patience as I relearned how to eat. She would cook my favorite dishes, measuring them in tiny portions while I worked on my relationship with food.
Now, as I reflect on those times, I can only imagine the fear my mother felt—how helpless she must have been. I empathize with her now and hope to avoid putting my daughter through such a struggle.
My little girl, like I once was, is not small nor overweight. She is exceptionally tall for her age, outshining her classmates. Recently, while playfully tickling her tummy, I almost referred to it as her “Buddha belly” but stopped, worried that even affectionate terms could be misconstrued. I ponder whether praising her beauty will nurture her confidence or inadvertently tie her self-worth to her appearance.
Navigating this path requires immense care. I shoot my husband disapproving looks when he innocently comments on a celebrity’s weight gain, reminding him that we have a daughter now. We’ve raised three boys who haven’t had to worry about their weight, but I know it’s different for girls. With no clear understanding of what fueled my eating disorders, I tread cautiously as I guide my daughter.
I strive to promote healthy habits: filling her cup with mostly water, avoiding negative talk about my body, and not restricting her sugar intake. I resist the urge to critique her father’s indulgences with her, while also ensuring she has a balanced diet full of fruits and veggies. I encourage her interests in dance, swimming, and horseback riding, celebrating her achievements and nurturing her spirit.
As she matures, I vow to listen and support her, helping her recognize her worth beyond the scale. I want her to embrace her body, to feel comfortable in her skin, and to avoid the distorted self-image I once experienced. I hope she never sees herself through a critical lens, nor feels the need to hide her body in any way.
Should she ever face body-shaming or bullying, I pray she has the resilience to brush off hurtful comments. If she does encounter such challenges, I hope to be the rock for her that my mother was for me.
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Summary
This article reflects on the author’s past struggles with eating disorders and her commitment to preventing her daughter from experiencing similar challenges. Through careful parenting, she aims to foster a positive body image and self-worth in her child, emphasizing the importance of nurturing and supportive environments.