Let me clarify that my mother isn’t a cruel person. She loves me deeply—I’ve never questioned that. She puts in a lot of effort, especially with my children, and she genuinely cares for us all. However, she’s just another woman caught in the grip of a culture that often equates thinness with beauty.
Now in her sixties, the rise of body positivity seems to have passed her by. She is still flipping through paper magazines and has never even heard of Instagram. Figures like Lizzo are completely unknown to her, and the idea of feeling “good as hell” is foreign.
Even if she were aware, I’m not sure she could be swayed. My mother has dealt with being plus-size for most of her life. If she ever dropped a size, it was only through extreme dieting that left her starving. She takes pride in going to bed hungry, and she often announces how little she has eaten that day. For her, eating is a weakness, and every bite feels like a transgression. She believes hunger is a necessary sacrifice for beauty. Each morning, she wakes up in a body that resembles Ashley Graham more than Cindy Crawford, and she sees it as a personal failure.
Ironically, my body mirrors hers, but I’ve chosen not to fight it. I refuse to accept that hunger and suffering define my worth simply because my shape differs from societal standards. I have a family to care for, and I do it in the body I inhabit. While my size may fluctuate with life’s changes, I have largely embraced my plus-size identity since adulthood.
When my children fall asleep against the softness of my V-neck t-shirt, I gaze down at their cherubic faces and can’t fathom wishing them to be any different. And yet, I grieve for my mother. Her deep-seated hatred of her own body makes it impossible for her to accept that I am at peace with mine. She may never verbalize it, but it’s clear she is disappointed that her only daughter is fat.
This disappointment has always been evident. My mother’s own childhood was marked by criticism from her mother, who subjected her to strict diets starting in elementary school. In contrast, my grandmother never treated me that way, even though my little figure was a reflection of my mother’s from three decades prior. It must have been painful for my mom to see her own mother dote on me in ways she wished she had experienced.
I understand that my mother’s body shame is rooted in trauma that runs incredibly deep. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t change her perspective. Her comments, though unintentional, hurt me because they stem from her unresolved issues.
Recently, after experiencing uncomplicated pregnancies, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Thankfully, I can manage it through diet, and as a result, I’ve been losing weight instead of gaining it. My doctor is reassured, and my baby is thriving. There are no concerns about our health leading up to delivery.
However, just a few days ago, my mom suggested that I should consider sticking to my diabetic diet after giving birth since it “obviously works for me.” When I asked her to clarify, she fumbled through an explanation, suggesting it’s “healthy for my kind of body,” ultimately implying that weight loss should be my goal.
I was disheartened. I’m more than willing to monitor my carbohydrate intake for the sake of my baby’s health. But managing gestational diabetes is not akin to following a trendy diet; it’s a significant effort that I’m eager to step away from after the baby arrives. The thought of continuing such a restrictive eating plan feels like a prison to me.
To my mother, however, it sounds like a wonderful idea because it could potentially reduce my size. She simply cannot envision a reality where my happiness isn’t tied to my weight. It pains me deeply, but I know she will never fully understand.
She has spent over six decades believing her worth is contingent upon being thin. If she were to accept that being anything else is okay, then what was the point of all those sacrifices? Why doesn’t she recall the taste of my sixth birthday cake? If she had embraced her curvy body, why was she at an aerobics class when my daughter won her second-grade spelling bee? Why did she choose plain roasted chicken instead of indulging in the exquisite pasta at that Italian restaurant we loved? Even now, we talk about that meal fondly, and I wonder if she wishes she had allowed herself to enjoy it.
I believe she’s sad, but she has paid too high a price to acknowledge it. The online fat positivity movement has provided me with a space to find peace with my body, but it’s disheartening to realize my mother won’t walk this journey alongside me. As much as I wish she would, I know that’s not possible.
When she asked about my diet, I chose not to confront her. I calmly told her I hadn’t considered living as if I had an illness. Instead of being irritated, I explained that managing gestational diabetes isn’t like following a fad diet. I jokingly suggested she bring me a cold cut platter and some black and white cookies the moment my baby arrives. She didn’t push me further; I think she understands now.
I know she will come through for me, bringing those cookies and showering my baby with the love she has for me. I can tell she finds humor in my perspective, but there’s a lingering hurt I carry.
I won’t be laughing.
Conclusion
In summary, the relationship between mothers and daughters, especially regarding body image, can be complex and fraught with unspoken disappointment. While one may embrace their size and find joy in their body, the other may be trapped in a cycle of body shame and societal expectations.
For more insights into the journey of body positivity and personal acceptance, check out our other blog posts here.
Additionally, if you are on a fertility journey, consider visiting Make a Mom for expert guidance or Johns Hopkins Medicine for comprehensive resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
Keyphrase: body image and mother-daughter relationships
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