Throughout my childhood, my mother’s incessant dieting was a constant presence. The ’70s and ’80s were marked by her obsession with cottage cheese, hot lemon water, and weeks of consuming nothing but pink grapefruit. She often resorted to eating dry rye crackers that resembled pieces of cardboard and likely tasted just as unappealing. Yet, despite her efforts, the weight persisted, clinging to her as if it were an unshakeable burden. She frequently lamented about how she had ruined her metabolism decades earlier, viewing it as irreparably stretched, much like an old pair of pants.
Unlike others whose controlling parents monitored their every bite, my mother was fixated on her own calorie intake. She never labeled me as overweight—although a relative once cautioned me against having a third slice of pizza, warning I’d end up looking like her. My father echoed similar sentiments during our occasional trips to an ice cream parlor, leaving me to wonder if I was expected to forgo the indulgent hot fudge sundae. Like many girls, I internalized the messages from my family and society about our bodies. We quickly learned that our bodies weren’t solely ours to appreciate; they were subjects for scrutiny, requiring us to detach our self-worth from our physical forms, examining our bodies as if we were assessing cuts of meat.
This mindset led to a tumultuous relationship with my weight between the ages of 14 and 20. My mother’s example left me ill-equipped to navigate food healthily. I oscillated between an uncomfortably thin 105 pounds and a heavier 155 pounds, without any discussion of balance, exercise, or overall wellness. In my home, eating was an extreme experience: it either involved painful deprivation or excessive indulgence.
The turning point came when I began to listen to my body’s natural signals—hunger, thirst, cravings, fatigue, and, importantly, the feeling of being satisfied. This shift allowed my weight to stabilize around 120 to 125 pounds for over 25 years. I now enjoy a balanced diet that includes everything in moderation, from bread to desserts and even alcohol. I’ve never engaged in dieting as an adult nor have I introduced that concept to my own children. When we discuss our bodies, we focus on achievements and strength rather than weight.
I strive to set a positive example for my daughters about food. While I may not be a chef, I ensure they have a nutritious breakfast every day, whether it’s a simple bowl of cereal or toast. They stay hydrated with water and nonfat milk, having never tasted soda. Snacks are healthy, such as apple slices or whole grain toast, and lunch typically consists of lean meats and vegetables. Dinner features wholesome meals with a variety of proteins and vegetables, always accompanied by dessert, which we share joyfully. We eat until we’re full and don’t snack afterward, as we find satisfaction in our meals.
My children do not struggle with weight issues, and even if they did, I would focus our conversations on health rather than weight. We discuss the importance of being active and plan family activities like biking together on weekends.
I do not hold my mother accountable for her example; she was a product of her time, lacking access to the wealth of information available today. She, too, absorbed societal pressures about body image and was never trying to inflict her struggles onto us. I recognize the pervasive negative media messages my daughters face daily, from unrealistic beauty standards to social media trends. However, I can prevent the continuation of unhealthy food attitudes by normalizing a healthy relationship with eating.
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In summary, my journey to breaking the cycle of unhealthy eating habits involved tuning into my body’s natural cues and fostering a positive environment for my children. By focusing on health rather than weight, I hope to help them cultivate a balanced relationship with food.