Every time I pour myself a glass of milk, I feel a pang of guilt. For me, milk is tied to one of my earliest memories of body shaming. When I was in kindergarten, I asked a trusted adult for a glass of milk, and she replied, “Milk has one purpose: to make little cows grow big, fast. You’re big enough. You don’t need milk,” and handed me a can of Diet Coke instead. That moment, an adult meant to support me, caused me to miss out on essential nutrients like calcium and vitamin D, all because that can of artificially flavored soda wouldn’t add any extra weight to me.
Now, thirty years later, each time I reach for the milk left at the bottom of my cereal bowl, I hesitate, still haunted by her words. “Milk has one purpose.”
Growing up, I was constantly bombarded with the mantra, “Milk: It Does A Body Good,” but that singular incident made me realize that my body was not the one they were referring to. To me, milk is forever accompanied by a side of body shame, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
As a mother of two sons and a daughter, it pains me that I can’t completely shield them from body shaming. Within our home, we celebrate all bodies, but once we step outside, I can’t protect them from the culture that once shattered my self-esteem as a child. They will encounter the same damaging messages about bodies that I grew up with.
It’s already begun. Just this morning, my eight-year-old pointed out his substitute teacher, noting, “Mom, you have to see my teacher! She’s beautiful! She looks just like you! She has your hair, and her makeup is just like yours. She’s even fat like you!” Initially, I felt relieved that he viewed fat as a neutral descriptor. But then, I noticed his expression change; he quickly began to backtrack. “Is that okay to say? I know some people use fat meanly, but I just mean it normally. Fat isn’t a bad word, right?”
I responded as I always do: “Fat is only a bad word if you believe it is. Some people think being fat is bad, so they label it negatively. I believe fat is neutral, just like tall or blonde; it’s simply a descriptor we can use when discussing bodies.”
How has diet culture seeped into my child’s understanding so early? Before he even finished second grade, he recognized that society views his fat mother as less than if she were thin. It’s heartbreaking.
I hope that the inclusive and positive environment we nurture at home will help my children navigate some of the lifelong struggles I faced, but the world outside hasn’t changed much. If any of my children happens to be a little chubby, they will have to discover how to love their bodies in a society that prizes thinness and demonizes fatness.
I know that one day they will stand before a mirror and scrutinize their bodies, identifying flaws where I see only beauty. This insecurity impacts my sons and daughter equally, but my daughter may face more challenges if she doesn’t conform to societal ideals. My sons will rarely be viewed as mere decorations; they can find validation in their intelligence and abilities. In contrast, my daughter must learn to assert herself, recognizing that her value is independent of her appearance.
Regardless of how well I prepare them, I can’t shield my kids from the influence of diet culture, and that infuriates me. What I can do is ensure they witness my resistance against it.
I want them to feel free to enjoy their cereal milk without the fear of body shaming lurking in their minds. If anyone dares to utter a negative comment about my children’s bodies in my presence, my defense of them will be fierce and unwavering. They may not forget the hurtful comment, but they will remember how fiercely I stood up for them. I can’t prevent them from hearing body-shaming remarks, but I can teach them that those who make such statements are misguided and wrong.
I refuse to allow my children to grow up burdened by body shame without putting up a battle. Kids’ bodies are inherently good. How dare we suggest otherwise?