Growing up, I never heard my mother utter the word “fat.” It was as if that term was lurking quietly in the corners of our home, unspoken but perhaps always present. Maybe during my nine-month gestation, she pondered it in bold letters, worried about her own changing body as she prepared to welcome me into the world. Perhaps she considered voicing it in frustration while stepping on the scale or glancing at those glamorous women on magazine covers. I could have been in the next room, oblivious while watching my favorite shows. Regardless, my mother was cautious.
Even if she was thinking it, she never vocalized it. I was unaware of what that word meant for women. As a young Italian girl, food was woven into my identity; it was foundational and comforting from my earliest memories. I cherished my grandmother’s mostaccioli as much as I did my toys. Food represented love, especially during family gatherings with hearty meals and laughter.
As I grew from a slender 7-year-old into an insecure 12-year-old, I transitioned from carefree to contemplative. I ate when I was hungry and dove into books when I craved something deeper. While the exterior changes of girlhood to womanhood were gradual, the internal shift felt abrupt. One day, my world was small—a cozy home and familiar faces. The next, my gaze was hungry for the broader world, eager for new experiences.
I began to unravel the complexities of womanhood during visits to my grandmother’s house. My aunts would lounge around in oversized shirts, their long hair in casual ponytails. They painted my nails and dressed me up, sharing their views on beauty and their frustrations about their bodies. They had boyfriends, discussed diets, and indulged in trendy meals of tuna or hard-boiled eggs. They filled me with a sense of youthful vibrancy, despite their own insecurities about their appearances.
At home, however, conversations about weight or diets were non-existent. My mother never pressured me to finish my food or restrict my snacks. I didn’t diet, nor did I ever consider myself “fat.” The term seemed devoid of meaning, a mere word without consequence.
It wasn’t until middle school that I first heard my peers use the term. In the locker room, the chatter was relentless: “I’m so fat!” “You’re a size 3; how can you say that?” Their banter confused me. They seemed to engage in a competition of self-criticism, each girl attempting to outdo the other in their claims of being overweight. While they appeared completely normal to me, I began to question my own reflection.
I would sneak into the bathroom, peel off my sweatshirt, and scrutinize my body in the mirror. I stood on a stool for a better view, trying to gauge if I fit into the definitions being thrown around. “You are so fat,” I whispered to myself, feeling the weight of the words sting. I didn’t believe them, yet I couldn’t escape the power they held.
When my mother called me for dinner, I quickly put my shirt back on, dismissing those thoughts. Our meals consisted of steak, buttery mashed potatoes, and broccoli—comforting and nourishing. We spoke of music, school, and books—conversations that mattered much more than superficial concerns about weight. I sensed my mother’s understanding. She had her own struggles but chose to keep certain conversations at bay, gifting me the strength of silence.
In the end, my mother’s choice not to speak that word was a lesson in itself. She knew the power of what remains unspoken, the strength in not assigning value to something as trivial as a label. Thus, the word “fat” remained untouched in our home.
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In summary, my mother’s silence around the “f-word” taught me that the conversations we choose to have—and those we choose to avoid—carry significant weight. Through her carefulness, she imparted a resilience that helped me navigate the complexities of self-image and societal expectations.
Keyphrase: “motherhood and body image”
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