The Stories and Voices We Inherit
"Look at me," my Mom said. She was talking to herself. She pressed her hands into her stomach, pushing in her flesh, and sighed deeply. I was only six or seven, but I could see she was disappointed in her body. She wanted to be smaller. I didn't understand. She was, as far as I was concerned, the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Little A looked adorable in her ruffle swim bottom with her tummy out and bare-chested with all her delicious baby rolls and folds.”
Photo: My Mom and I at York Animal Kingdom in the early 1980’s
But how she talked about her body wasn't unique in our family. Every adult woman in my life, aunts, and grandmothers, openly discussed how they wanted, needed to be smaller and the lengths they would go to get there.
I would look around at these women, their beautiful bronze skin, round brown and blue eyes, and think to myself, "What are they talking about? They're beautiful."
My Mom and Aunts NEVER said anything negative about MY body to me, EVER. Let me make that clear. But I saw and felt the disconnect between how they viewed themselves versus others. I was always beautiful in their eyes.
I was on the cusp of puberty and in fifth grade when I remember looking at myself in the mirror and for the first time thinking, "Look at me," with disappointment and disgust. That is when it started, the weaving in and out of disordered eating sparked by inherited disdain for a fluctuating body and a steady desire to control something in my life.
It wasn't until I was 35 and gave birth to our first daughter that I felt proud of my body. Giving birth to her was the most challenging, most athletic, spiritual, and life-changing thing I have ever done. I felt radiant and powerful. As women, we hold the universe inside us. We can channel lightning - we deliver people INTO the world. It is the most miraculous of feats, and women do it EVERDAY.
Now fast forward to a brutally hot summer day ten months after our first girl was born. We are sitting out in our courtyard splashing in the kiddie pool and enjoying the company of a family friend. Little A looked adorable in her ruffle swim bottom with her tummy out and bare-chested with all her delicious baby rolls and folds. When my friend asked me while looking at Little A, "Do you think she eats too much?"
I laughed because I thought the friend was joking.
She wasn't, I could see by the look on her face.
I told her, "No. Not at all. She needs all that healthy fat to develop gray matter in her brain. It is necessary for her development." The friend replied, "Oh, I didn't know that." I can't remember what I said after that, but I remember what kept running through my mind after that encounter. "Is this when it starts? Shit, she is only ten months old. It can't be."
I was reminded of one of my favorite Montessori quotes, "The things [they see] are not just remembered; they form a part of their soul." That voice I hear when I look in the mirror that is sad, disappointed, and disgusted with my body - it started out sounding like my Mother, Grandmothers, and Aunts. I am sure their 'voices' didn't sound like theirs at first, either. I don't hold this against them, or blame them even, but we can change the stories or stop telling them altogether.
Since the girls were born, I have made a sincere effort to share how amazing their bodies are. I try and model healthy habits by staying active, eating well, and always saying yes to ice cream! Sometimes the girls will ask me, "Mommy, why do you have to go running?" I tell them, "I run because it makes me feel happy. It makes me feel strong and helps me feel more like myself inside."I mention nothing about how I still carry sadness and shame around my body. There are many things I want to pass on to my girls, but this isn't one of them.
Note: I know this story touches on sensitive subjects such as fertility and eating disorders. If you are struggling and or suffering, I stand with you. I send you love. -jenny
