The Weight of Her Words

I wish I cared less about my appearance. I wish, instead of just supporting the body positivity movement, I could embody the body positivity movement. I wish I could look at this body and tell her, “You’ve done so much, you are perfect the way you are, you deserve my love.” 

I’m not there yet. 

I appreciate what my body is capable of. I am grateful it has expanded for new life and fed babies and held tiny bodies needing nothing more than my touch. This body is relatively healthy; it has weird numb spots and alopecia and a bad shoulder, but it is strong. And I appreciate all of that. I never take it for granted. 

But my mind sees this body the way my mother told me to. 

My hair only looks good long, she has told me this. “Your face is too round for short hair.” And I hear her voice each time I put on my moisturizer: “I have always looked so young for my age. It’s too bad you got your father’s skin.” 

My body looks like her body the way I remember it – the way she hated it. Soft, her features round. She was always on a diet – obsessed with being something other than herself – and she never hid her disappointment with the number on the scale. “You’re always going to be built like your momma.” She blamed me (and my sisters) for the extra skin on her stomach, and when I was pregnant with my daughter: “You will never lose that baby weight.” Never thin enough. Never pretty enough. Her words still scream at me even though it has been seven years since we’ve spoken.  

My mother did not love herself when I was a child and she taught me to hate my body too.

Now, a mother myself, I am terrified of making the same mistake. I am terrified of passing on the weight of my mother’s words. I am working hard to keep my discontent with my body a private issue – around my children, my body is beautiful. My tummy is normal. My hair is pretty. My skin is healthy.    

Our scale tells us how strong we are, not how much we weigh. 

I don’t talk about their little bodies unless I’m complimenting them on how capable they are. I focus on their talents and tell them how smart and funny and incredible they are every chance I get. I support their interests in sports and encourage them to love being outside and moving their bodies. 

I don’t talk about dieting. I don’t use the term “fat” in a negative way. I remind myself every day that I am not my mother.

I want my children to be confident in their bodies. I want them to look in the mirror and say, “Body, you’ve done so much, you are perfect the way you are, you deserve my love.” And I want them to mean it. 

I want to mean it, too. 

I’m trying, but I’m not there yet.