Somewhere between the ages of 8 and 9, I began to grapple with my self-image. It wasn’t a dramatic revelation but rather a slow accumulation of moments that led me to embrace a lingering insecurity—a burden that would shadow me into adulthood.
It all started with the scale outside the local vitamin shop at the mall. For just a quarter, it revealed precious metrics like body fat percentage and bone mass. Yet, the one piece of information that resonated with me was that I was “9 pounds overweight.”
Then there was my mother, who was naturally slender and resolute about maintaining that figure. I would tag along to the gym in my flashy workout gear, a front-row spectator to the aerobics craze of the 80s. We also had Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” on VCR, where we’d bounce around together. Plus, there was the Deal-A-Meal diet plan that I joined my mom on.
Looking back, I realize my mom emphasized health, but as a child immersed in a culture that idolized thinness, I understood the underlying message: we didn’t want to be fat. My mother’s own experiences with her mother’s weight struggles fueled her desire to protect me from similar pain. She aimed to instill a love for fitness and a healthy diet, ensuring I wouldn’t feel the societal pressures she had faced.
Unfortunately, my teenage years were marked by glossy magazines showcasing models like Kate Moss, promoting an unrealistic standard of beauty that was completely at odds with my own body type—solid and sturdy, thanks to my dad. The perception of beauty I absorbed distorted my self-image, making me feel inadequate as I tried to meet impossible standards.
Fast forward to today, and as the mother of four sons, I often hear people express disappointment that I don’t have a daughter. My response is a firm no. Sure, there are things I imagined sharing with a daughter, but having sons brings a sense of relief—I believed I could spare them from the struggle I endured.
I thought I wouldn’t need to teach them about body acceptance, as they seemed immune to societal pressures about appearance. That was until the day my 8-year-old son came home in tears. Tall and solidly built, he had been teased by his friends, leading him to believe he was “fat.”
Seeing him sob in my arms shattered my heart. “But they’re wrong!” I whispered, searching for the right words. “You’re strong and healthy!” But my reassurances fell flat as he pointed to his stomach, claiming, “This? This is fat.”
In that moment, I realized that my son wasn’t free from the curse of body image issues. I had not shielded him from societal standards, nor had I taught him self-acceptance. I had thought boys were exempt from these pressures, but I was wrong.
I had always felt envious of the way my sons could be themselves without worrying about their bodies. While I encouraged them to embrace my imperfections, I never considered the importance of teaching them to appreciate their own bodies. I didn’t know it was necessary for boys, too.
As I reflect on this, I realize that whatever conversations we need to have about body image, they aren’t just for girls. Our sons are absorbing these messages too.
In summary, it’s crucial to understand that body acceptance and self-love are lessons that need to be imparted to all children, regardless of gender. We can’t assume boys are immune to the pressures of societal beauty standards, so let’s be proactive in nurturing a healthy body image for our sons as well.