When I was around 7 or 8 years old, I penned a note to my mother that expressed my deepest insecurities:
“Mom,
I’m sorry for being fat. I hate myself. You probably don’t love me because of it. Maybe I should just run away. I wish you didn’t have such a fat daughter.”
– Jenna
Even thinking about that letter makes me want to embrace that little girl and shield her from the shame I once felt. The thought of my own daughters experiencing such feelings at such a tender age truly breaks my heart.
I vividly remember the moment that triggered my letter. I was at a friend’s house, and we were measuring our wrists, each trying to see if our fingers could meet when wrapped around. Mine didn’t, while the other girls’ hands easily overlapped. At that moment, I felt entirely out of place and wrong.
By that age, I was already aware of my weight compared to the other girls I admired. We were ushered behind a curtain for gym class weigh-ins, and even though our weights were supposed to be kept private, other girls would sometimes ask me directly. I realize now they were seeking to feel better about themselves, but at the time, it only deepened my sadness and sense of inadequacy.
My mother always tried to reassure me. She would say I was beautiful, but I knew that was what moms say to their kids, regardless of the truth. As I grew up, I battled my insecurities with various weight-loss attempts—some healthy, some not. I’ve tried everything from supplements to extreme diets, and I’ve fluctuated between baggy clothes to highlight my figure, even if it wasn’t where I wanted it to be.
I’ve slimmed down for special occasions like my wedding, gained weight during pregnancy, and sought surgery to improve my health. Now, I find myself at a more balanced stage. I don’t loathe myself anymore; I’m working toward accepting and, on a good day, loving who I am. The presence of my daughters has illuminated the importance of modeling healthy self-perception for them—even if it sometimes feels like I’m putting on a front.
My eldest daughter, Lily, is almost 6 and is truly radiant. One day, as we were preparing for school, she compared herself to her younger sister, claiming that her sister was prettier. This kind of talk unsettles me because it’s unproductive and shifts focus away from what truly matters. When I heard Lily lament about her “big belly,” I was transported back to my own childhood insecurities. I fought the urge to cry as I attempted to reassure her of her beauty, hoping to instill confidence in her.
Here’s my confession: I’m frightened. I dread the thought of her feeling the way I once did. I want to teach her that real beauty transcends physical appearance and isn’t tied to a dress size or reflection in a mirror. I grapple with how to instill ideas of self-acceptance and health in her, knowing that I’m still working on these concepts myself.
I’m determined to guide her toward understanding that both of us can love ourselves and find happiness. I want her to know that, just as she seeks comfort from me at night, I will be there to help her cultivate confidence in who she is.
Every part of my being contributed to her existence—my body, my soul, my past experiences, and even my fears influence how I raise her into a secure and joyful woman.
As I conclude, I acknowledge my uncertainty about how to address these issues should they arise again. I don’t want her to face the kind of hurt I experienced, nor do I wish to receive a note like the one I wrote to my mom. I am committed to facing these feelings for both her sake and mine.
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