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I started my first diet when I was just seven years old. At that age, I wasn’t overweight at all; I was healthy and full of energy, with sun-kissed skin and scraped knees to show for it. The excitement of dieting came from doing it alongside my mother. We followed along with exercise videos she’d pop into the VCR daily, practiced yoga poses every morning, and participated in aerobics classes at the gym together, decked out in leotards and leg warmers. I looked up to my mom immensely, wanting to emulate her in every way, which made me eager to join her in any activity she did.
Although she never explicitly said being overweight was something to be ashamed of, I absorbed that message clearly. She avoided wearing shorts in her mid-thirties, claiming her legs were “too heavy,” despite probably weighing no more than 110 pounds at that time. She often lamented about her legs being “too veiny” after having children. Conversely, she took pride in mentioning that she weighed less than a hundred pounds when she married my dad, and she would always add that this was after two pregnancies. The weight she had accumulated since then likely weighed more heavily on her self-esteem than it did on her physique. To an outsider, she embodied the ideal ’80s figure: slim and toned.
My grandmother, who was on the heavier side, was one of the things I cherished about her—the warmth of her embrace, her soft arms, and her inviting lap. However, the narrative I received from both my mom and grandma was about how stunning Grandma once was. “She wasn’t always heavy,” my mom would say, treating that fact like a silver lining. There was a picture of Grandma in her younger days, looking more like my mother, with waves in her hair and bright lipstick. Her bright-eyed expression seemed like a memory of someone who no longer existed. No one had to say it out loud; I understood the implication.
In eighth grade, my mother became concerned about my eating habits and sought a counselor for me. I had probably gained a couple of pounds, a common occurrence during adolescence, and she was determined to intervene. I often wonder if she ever considered that my insatiable appetite stemmed from our struggles with poverty and hunger. After my father left, we relied on food stamps and received boxes of canned goods labeled “Rural Crisis Center.” When food was available, I knew it wouldn’t last long, leading me to eat quickly—perhaps too quickly—preparing for times when our pantry would be empty again. I can’t help but wonder if she took into account the social embarrassment I felt when my friend’s parents refused to let her stay over because we “didn’t have any food.”
Food represented a dichotomy in our household: when there was enough, life was good; when there wasn’t, it was tough. However, indulging in food also meant the risk of becoming overweight, which was deemed unacceptable.
I never had a chance for a healthy relationship with food or my body—not even once.
My mother now recognizes this as a generational curse. “I used to be so afraid of gaining weight,” she tells me now, having come to terms with her body as she ages. She recalls her own mother crying while trying on bathing suits. Grandma and my mom would often warn one another about weight gain, sharing a common fear during tea or while snapping green beans in the backyard. My mother was a slender child, even feeling self-conscious about her protruding collarbones. She was built differently, and the women who loved her worked hard to prevent her from facing their own fate—one that led them to issue warnings and lament about how they wished things could be different.
For decades, she fought against the looming fear of weight gain. In doing so, she inadvertently set me on the same path.
I can’t recall the last time I felt satisfied with my body—maybe never, not even when I was at a weight I now wish I could achieve again. My weight fluctuates, and my eating habits swing from “I don’t care” mode, where I indulge in everything, to a panicked obsession with counting every calorie and carbohydrate. Regardless of how strong my heart and muscles are, or the fact that this body has nurtured and raised children, it deserves a break. Like my mother, I avoid wearing shorts. When I gaze into the mirror, I find myself fixating on the sagging areas, the dimples on my thighs, and the same broken capillaries my mother once lamented.
I search for my value in my reflection. It’s no surprise that I find nothing, but I struggle to look for it elsewhere.
My mother believed she was helping me by instilling these habits. Just like her mother and grandmother before her, her intentions were far from malicious. She thought that by promoting a life of “healthy” eating and exercise, I would avoid the burden of weight gain “sneaking up” on me.
What it truly taught me was how to ensure I would never love myself.
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Summary:
This reflective piece explores the author’s complicated relationship with body image, heavily influenced by her mother’s own struggles with weight and self-acceptance. From a young age, the author was taught to equate self-worth with weight, leading to a lifetime of dieting and dissatisfaction. The cycle of body image issues is presented as a generational curse, illustrating the impact of familial narratives on personal self-esteem.
Search Queries:
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Keyphrase: Body Image Struggles and Generational Influence
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