While browsing through the clearance section at Target yesterday, I found myself in the dressing room, trying to escape the responsibilities of adulthood. It was then that I overheard two girls, likely around 14, chatting next door. Initially, their conversation was filled with laughter about a boy, but then the tone shifted. One girl remarked, “I’d look so much better if I was as skinny as you. You suck. I just won’t eat tonight.” Her friend didn’t protest. They continued discussing dieting as if it was just another casual topic. Perhaps for them, it was so ingrained in their lives that they didn’t even think twice about it.
My heart sank. I recognized myself in that moment. I remembered being that girl. Sometimes, I still feel like her. Standing there, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness, recalling how I used to pinch my body in front of a mirror, wishing away my perceived flaws. I longed to be as “skinny” as someone else—my sister, my best friend, or any other girl who seemed to have it all together.
The obsession with being skinny consumed me, leading me down a dark path of disordered eating. Those formative years, which should have been filled with excitement like first dates and learning to drive, were instead overshadowed by depression and self-loathing. I projected my insecurities onto others, believing that being one pound lighter would somehow make me happier. Inside, I was crumbling, hiding behind a façade of anger and rebellious behavior.
As I realized I might be heard sobbing in the dressing room, I quickly composed myself. My instinct to help kicked in. I imagined swooping in to rescue that girl, hoping to encourage her to eat that evening and resist societal pressures about body image. I wanted to tell her that being skinny doesn’t guarantee success or genuine friendships. It doesn’t make you a better person or more lovable; it simply makes you skinny.
I wished I could have gone into that dressing room to highlight her beauty beyond her size. I wanted to drive her home and throw away her scale. I envisioned us sharing lunch without worrying about calories or how to compensate afterward. I wanted her to embrace the joy of eating and focus on what truly makes her beautiful, which has nothing to do with fitting into a specific size.
But I stayed silent. Perhaps it was my own sadness that paralyzed me. As I drove home, I cried, regretting my missed opportunity to reach out. I thought about my own daughter and worried about passing on my old habits to her.
Just the other day, I caught my 2-year-old mimicking the “scale dance”—stepping on and off the scale repeatedly. A wave of guilt washed over me. I realized I was unknowingly teaching her to disapprove of herself. Simply telling her to love her body isn’t enough; I must show her what self-love looks like.
At that moment, I vowed to break the cycle of self-hatred. I would be a living example of loving my body, even on days when I felt like a fraud. I refuse to let my daughter believe her worth is tied to a number on a scale or whether she fits into a pair of pants from Target.
When I got home, I hugged my daughter tightly, thinking of that girl at Target. While I couldn’t help her, I could certainly be the support my daughter needs. We sat in front of the mirror, pretending to have a tea party while enjoying real biscuits. We planned adventures and danced together. As she gazed into the mirror, she smiled and said, “Mommy, pretty like Meme. Pretty, happy Mommy.”
In that moment, I felt beautiful, and I intend to stay that way—for her, always.
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In summary, it is vital to lead by example and break the cycle of self-doubt in our daughters. By fostering a positive body image and self-love, we can ensure that they grow up knowing their worth is not measured by societal standards.