Growing up, I never once heard my mother say the word “fat.” It was as if it lurked somewhere in the shadows of our household—perhaps hidden, perhaps unspoken. As my mother carried me, a robust 9-pound baby, I can only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind. Was she concerned about her own changing figure, her ability to fit into her trendy bell bottoms from the late ’70s? Maybe she contemplated expressing her frustrations as she stood on the bathroom scale or glanced at the glamorous women from television. But regardless of her inner dialogue, she was always careful with her words.
In my childhood, I was a little Italian girl whose world revolved around food. To me, meals were synonymous with love, especially during family gatherings. My favorite dish, mostaccioli, was a staple at every Sunday dinner. Love was served through heaping bowls of thick meat sauce and tender veal.
As I transitioned from a lanky 7-year-old to a self-conscious 12-year-old, I found solace in books while navigating the complexities of growing up. My aunts, with their carefree spirits, offered me a glimpse into young womanhood during my visits to my grandmother’s house. They would wake up in oversized nightshirts and paint my nails, sharing secrets about beauty, diets, and their own insecurities. I absorbed their conversations, which were filled with both laughter and lament about their bodies, yet they radiated a love for life that was infectious.
At home, however, discussions about body image were non-existent. My mother never imposed a diet or criticized my eating habits. “Finish your meatloaf,” she would say, but never, “You shouldn’t have another cookie.” Food was simply a part of our lives, not a topic of scrutiny. The word “fat” held no significance in our household.
It wasn’t until middle school that I began to hear my peers casually throw around the term. In the locker room, the conversations shifted from innocent banter to a strange competition of self-deprecation. “I’m so fat!” was a common refrain. I observed these interactions with a mix of curiosity and confusion. Was this kind of talk something I was supposed to engage in? The girls looked normal to me—perhaps even thinner than I was—yet here they were, claiming to be “fat.”
I remember locking myself in the bathroom, standing on my younger brother’s step stool to scrutinize my reflection. I was determined to figure out if I was indeed “fat.” I tried saying the words aloud: “You are so fat.” The sound stung, feeling harsh and cruel. “I am fat,” I muttered, struggling with the notion. Why couldn’t I see myself as they did?
When my mother knocked on the door, calling me to dinner, I quickly pulled myself together. Dinner was a simple yet satisfying affair: steak, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and a glass of milk. As we sat around the table, I pushed aside my swirling thoughts and focused on school, music, and the book I was reading. Here, we placed value in our shared experiences, not our bodies. My mother had already given me the gift of understanding what truly matters—what remains unsaid.
So, my mother never uttered that word. Instead, she taught me that sometimes the most profound lessons are found in silence. If you’re interested in exploring more about these topics, check out this insightful article on body image. And if you’re looking for resources on home insemination, consider visiting Hopkins Medicine for excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination, or Make A Mom for reputable at-home insemination kits. If you’re seeking more stories like this, you can also read about my experiences with intracervical insemination.
Summary
The author reflects on her upbringing in an Italian family where discussions of body image and the word “fat” were absent. Through her experiences with family and peers, she navigates the complexities of self-perception and societal expectations. Her mother’s carefulness instilled a deeper understanding of love and values beyond physical appearance.
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