It was during my first year of high school when I returned home from a fun day out with friends. My mom and aunt were seated in the living room, and they appeared to have something serious to discuss. I felt uneasy as they informed me of their decision to remove all snacks and junk food from the kitchen. They suggested I substitute two meals a day with the weight loss shakes neatly arranged on the fridge’s bottom shelf.
To be “kind,” they had selected chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla flavors for me to try. They assured me I was still welcome to eat dinner with the family, as long as it didn’t involve shakes.
“You know how your stomach hangs over your pants a bit? You don’t want to look like that when you grow up, right? It’s better to get a handle on your body now,” they said.
I felt as if I had been hit in the chest. Honestly, that same sensation returns whenever I think back to that moment. I couldn’t breathe, let alone respond. All I could do was stare at my “big belly” and cry.
Fast forward two decades, and the memory of that conversation remains crystal clear. I remember sitting in a small loveseat, hugging a fringed throw pillow while they sat in high-backed chairs. I was in a black tank top and my favorite pair of American Eagle jeans, standing at 5’7″ and wearing a size 4.
Until that moment, I had never felt uncomfortable in my skin, nor questioned my self-worth. I had never pinched my skin until it bruised, nor experienced the gnawing hunger that left me weak.
That day marked the beginning of a long battle. I spent years grappling with self-love, often starved myself during college, especially when stressed or preparing for a family visit. Balancing a full-time job with a heavy course load, I worked out daily, but my meals were limited to vegetable soup or an energy bar. I would pick at my food during lunches with friends, leaving plates half-eaten.
Sometimes during class, I’d feel faint, and at work, I was compelled to eat something to stave off hunger pains. Then I’d return home to comments like, “You’re so skinny!” and “You look amazing!” — statements that now evoke a sense of irony and rage. Back then, they validated my choices and made me feel good. I admired my collarbones in the mirror and felt attractive in my thin, sun-kissed body.
Today, reflecting on that time fills me with tears. While I cherish many good memories with friends, I also carry deep pain and anger. I wasn’t well, yet no one could see it. The people I loved seemed happy with my appearance.
Now in my 30s, I struggle with chronic anxiety and body dysmorphia. I enjoyed my pregnancies but loathed looking at postpartum photos, especially after three pregnancies in five years. I opted for oversized clothes and avoided cameras and swimming pools, shying away from shorts and tank tops. Family visits became dread-filled events as I sensed them scrutinizing my appearance.
Despite therapy and professional support, I can’t fully escape these demons. The seeds of self-doubt were planted long ago, when I was a carefree teenager told she was “getting too fat” and needed to stop nourishing her body for the sake of weight loss shakes.
This is how you harm your children, folks. Sure, there are many ways to emotionally damage kids, and even the best parents have their off days. I’ve faltered myself.
But these discussions—making critical remarks about a child’s body or associating the word “fat” with shame—carry weight. They can alter how children perceive themselves and the world around them.
As a mother, I’m furious. I would never approach my kids in that manner, and I’m angry that I’ve lost so much time to negative thoughts. I wish for all parents to avoid making their children feel less worthy based on societal standards.
Don’t frame health discussions in terms of weight loss. If we know better, we can do better.
For those navigating parenthood, consider exploring resources like this guide on caring for premature babies or Healthline’s pregnancy resource for valuable insights.
And if you’re interested in home insemination options, check out this home insemination kit.
Summary
A personal narrative reveals how a single critical conversation about body image can have lasting detrimental effects on self-esteem. It emphasizes the importance of nurturing and supportive discussions about health and body image in parenting, urging parents to be mindful of their words and attitudes.