In my childhood, the term “fat” was never vocalized by my mother. It lingered in the corners of our home, unspoken yet palpable. Perhaps during her pregnancy with me, as she navigated the changes in her body, she harbored thoughts of that word but refrained from articulating it. I can only imagine her anxieties about fitting into her late ’70s attire or comparing herself to the women on magazine covers. Even as I sat nearby, engrossed in a program like Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, my mother remained cautious with her words.
As a little girl of Italian descent, food was ingrained in my identity and love. Mostaccioli, as much a part of my family gatherings as my own doll, embodied the warmth of love and connection. This foundation of nourishment shaped my perspective on food as something joyful and essential rather than something to be feared.
I transitioned from a slender child to a self-conscious pre-teen, often retreating behind the pages of a book during meals. My perception of femininity expanded through visits to my grandmother’s home, surrounded by my aunts who were my first glimpses into young womanhood. They shared their beauty ideals and insecurities, expressing disdain for their bodies while showing me a world filled with camaraderie, laughter, and the joy of song. Yet, conversations about diets and body image were absent in my own home. Food was never a topic of judgment; rather, it was a source of comfort.
The first time I heard peers use the word “fat” was in middle school, echoing through the locker room after gym class. Curiosity compelled me to listen as girls engaged in a dialogue steeped in self-deprecation. It was a perplexing exchange where the thinnest often claimed to be the “fattest,” leaving me bewildered. I would later find myself alone in the bathroom, scrutinizing my reflection, grappling with a newfound awareness of my body.
Despite my own insecurities, I felt the weight of the word “fat” as I repeated it aloud to myself. It felt foreign and harsh. Dinner at home continued to be a haven of normalcy, filled with conversation about school and music, where food was simply an accompaniment to life. My mother’s carefulness in not assigning value to weight was her gift to me, a silent understanding of the complexities of body image that many women, including herself, struggled with.
In the end, my mother never uttered that word. She provided a space where love prevailed over judgment, shaping how I navigated my own feelings about body image.
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In summary, our relationship with food and body image is often shaped by the experiences and teachings of those around us. My mother’s unspoken lessons about value and care have left a lasting impact on my understanding of self-worth.