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I embarked on my first diet at the tender age of seven. I was neither overweight nor unhealthy; in fact, I was active and vibrant, with sun-kissed skin and scraped knees to show for it. Yet, the idea of dieting excited me because it was something I shared with my mother. Whether it was the exercise videos she played on the VCR, the yoga routines we practiced each morning, or the aerobics classes I attended with her decked out in leotards and leg warmers, I idolized her. I eagerly seized every opportunity to mimic her actions.
Though she never explicitly condemned being overweight, the message was unmistakable. My mother stopped wearing shorts in her mid-thirties, claiming her legs were “too heavy” and “too veiny” due to a few spider veins she developed during pregnancy. Ironically, she likely weighed no more than 110 pounds at that time. She took pride in her pre-marriage weight of less than a hundred pounds, even after having two children. I suspect that any weight gain since then weighed more on her self-esteem than on her actual physique. To anyone else, she embodied the ideal body type of the ’80s – slim and graceful.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was heavyset, and her comforting, soft body was something I cherished. Her warm embrace and inviting lap were always a refuge. Yet, both my mother and grandmother spoke of her past beauty rather than her present self. “She wasn’t always heavy,” my mother would say, as if that fact somehow redeemed her. A portrait of Grandma in her younger years hung on the wall, showing her vibrant and beautiful, with the kind of radiance that seemed absent in her later life. The unspoken sentiment was clear: she was prettier back then.
In eighth grade, my mother enlisted a counselor to address her concerns about my eating habits. I may have gained a few pounds, which is common for adolescent girls, but she was determined to “fix” me. Perhaps she overlooked the fact that my eating habits were driven by hunger, especially given the tough times when my father left us with little support. We often relied on food stamps and cans from the “Rural Crisis Center.” When food was scarce, I learned to eat quickly and without restraint, fearing it would soon disappear. I wonder if she understood the social humiliation I faced when a friend’s parents deemed our home unsuitable for sleepovers due to its lack of food.
Food became a symbol of stability and chaos in our household. Eating was good, but it also meant the risk of becoming “fat,” which was deemed bad.
I never stood a chance at developing a positive relationship with food or my body. The cycle continued.
My mother recognizes this generational cycle. “I was terrified of gaining weight,” she confesses now that she’s grown more accepting of her body. She recalls her own mother crying in dressing rooms while trying on swimsuits. Both her mother and grandmother shared warnings over tea, lamenting how weight seems to “sneak up on you.” My mother, a skinny child, often felt ashamed of her slender frame. Those who loved her worked diligently to ensure she didn’t share the fate of the women before her, leading her to issue warnings and express regrets about how things had turned out.
Years of striving to avoid weight gain ultimately cast a shadow over me, compelling me to replicate her struggles.
I can’t recall a time when I felt content with my body, perhaps never, not even during periods when I resembled the ideal I aspire to now. My weight fluctuates endlessly, and my relationship with food oscillates between indulgence and guilt. Despite being healthy, strong, and having nurtured children, I mirror my mother’s avoidance of shorts. When I gaze into the mirror, I can’t help but focus on the areas I dislike: the sagging skin, the cottage cheese thighs, the same broken capillaries my mother lamented.
I search for validation in my reflection. It’s no wonder I can’t seem to find it; I simply don’t know how to seek it elsewhere.
My mother believed she was helping me by instilling these habits, much like her mother and grandmother before her. Her intentions weren’t malicious; she genuinely thought that teaching me about healthy eating and exercise would prevent me from worrying about weight gain. Yet, all she really taught me was how to hinder my ability to love myself.
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In summary, the cycle of body image issues and unhealthy relationships with food can often be traced through generations. From early dieting to a constant struggle for approval, these patterns can shape how we perceive ourselves. Acknowledging these influences is the first step toward breaking the cycle and fostering a healthier mindset.