It's Never Just About You

March 14, 2022. Three years ago today, I got on a plane for Tennessee in the early morning hours; leaving my husband, two children, and my entire life behind for 40 days of intense, in-patient treatment. A last ditch effort to quell a disease I’d lived with since before I was old enough to drive. I thought my reasons for going were simple. I was out of control; killing myself slowly; tearing my marriage apart; and white knuckling through each day, all in the name of shrinking my body.

As time goes by, hindsight often has a way of cheekily unveiling the bigger picture in a way that makes you say “why didn’t I realize this before?” In the months following my return from treatment, there was more clarity surrounding the long-lasting influence it would have over my life. My original list of reasons for seeking recovery grew in length and in depth; it was about so much more than an immediate need to stop self-destructive behaviors.

When my normally confident, kind and relaxed little girl, was brought to her knees by how she looked in the mirror in her dance uniform, my recovery became about her.

“Why don’t I look like the other girls?” she asked me as tears rolled from her blue eyes.

She hated her stomach; that she was shorter than everyone else in the class; that the required purple sports bra and what the dance studio called “shorts” left nothing to the imagination. It seemed cruel to subject girls at this age to such exposure when they were all in various stages of the awkwardness that accompanies puberty.

I was keenly aware of how careful I needed to be; that whatever I said in this moment would shape how she felt about herself now and for many years in the future. And my heart ached in a way that only a mother’s can when they see their children suffer. Perhaps even more; because I didn’t see her curled up on that floor, I saw me. And at this moment in my life, when I was scared and vulnerable and confused as to why I was suddenly keenly aware of my body, the response I received fell short of what I needed.

“Tell her that this is why she shouldn’t eat so many desserts.”

“More exercise and less snacking.”

“If she wasn’t such a picky eater this wouldn’t be a problem.”

I can’t say that these thoughts didn’t run through my brain. I wanted to help her, right? If there was anything I was well educated on, it was how to lose weight.

I let the thoughts race and gathered her into my arms; her body like a heater, her face wet from crying, and still in the offensive dance uniform. As I dug deep into my brain for the right words, I realized that I may have said those insensitive things to this beautiful child with a mind like a sponge. Who still idolized me and would take anything I said straight to heart. This was the reason, more than anything else, that I finally made the choice to get better. She needed me to be the type of mom who could handle this.

I could tell her she was beautiful; made in God’s image, and that comparison was the thief of joy. It was all true, but it would sound like nothing but lip service. I tried something else.

“Tell me five things that you love about yourself that have nothing to do with the way that you look.”

A break in the sobs; she looked at me as I wiped her tears and helped her to sit upright.

“Want me to start?” I asked. She nodded.

I made her blush when I told her how incredibly thoughtful she was; always considerate of others, constantly thinking of ways to brighten someone’s day. The affirmation got her out of her head for a moment, to a place of warmth and safety, away from the darkness brought on by shame. I looked at her and smiled expectantly, eager to hear what she had to say.

“I am really good at the hula hoop. I beat everyone last year when we had a contest at field day.”

Her eyes lit up as she went through the things that made her confident and happy; that reminded her of how many things she was capable of and how important they were in shaping who she was. And she didn’t stop at five. The mood in the room shifted and so did her demeanor. I wanted it to stay that way forever, but I knew that this was only the beginning of the war that all girls wage with themselves. One that begins with a dance uniform in the third grade and continues well into adulthood.

“The next time you feel this way about yourself, tell your brain ‘stop!”, and go through the list we just made. You won’t always feel like doing it, but it will make you feel so much better.”

Somehow I’d compiled the words of more than one therapist, taught to me over the course of two decades and said something that felt like sound advice. I breathed deeply for the first time in what felt like the longest ten minutes, and realized just how much this conversation affected my nervous system.

“Thank you Mommy,” she said as she hugged me tightly, and it was my turn for tears.

I didn’t cry for her; I was confident that I did the right thing, and I knew we could get through this next phase of her life together. I wasn’t crying because I didn’t get to hear this type of messaging until well into my 30’s. And while I did envision holding my nine-year-old self in the same way, telling her it would be okay, it wasn’t her that made me sad either.

I wept because for the first time, I could empathize with my own mother. Instead of blaming her, I realized how unprepared and scared she must have been when I came to her with the same insecurities. In her own way, she was trying to make things better, with no way of knowing that she was getting it wrong. She was a product of her upbringing and I was a product of mine. The difference was, I was given the opportunity to heal; and, while it took 25 years to take it, the experience changed me so intrinsically, I now had the knowledge and abilities to stop a seemingly endless, generational cycle.

While I could not be certain that my future granddaughter would be spared from body insecurity and self-doubt, what I did know is that her mother would be well-equipped to guide her to safety. And that made my journey, long as it has been, all the more worthwhile.

Authentically Yours,