Ash Thoreau

I have two disclaimers to this post:

1. Mom, if you’re reading this, please don’t take offense. Understand that I love you to death. There is a memory listed below that involves you directly, but I view it as a learning experience. Know that I have no regrets on how you have brought me up. I wouldn’t change the past for any amount of money. I love my life, and I love you for being there all of these years. You are my hero and that will never change. You are such a beautiful human being.
2. I am aware that this subject is touchy. People feel differently about how self image is viewed, as well as how it should be taught to children. I also know that beauty is more than skin deep. I’m not posting this for an argument. I’m posting this from my own personal experience, in hopes that I can grow. If you have something negative to say, leave it behind. I don’t need that in my life right now.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on how I see my body, especially since becoming a mom. One of my biggest goals is to stop the cycle of self-criticism—both for myself and for my daughter. I refuse to let her grow up feeling the way I did. I don’t want her to ever witness me having one of those negative, intrusive thoughts about my body, and I’m determined to break that mindset before it reaches her.

Looking back, I’ve come to realize that I likely struggle with body dysmorphia, though I have never spoken to a doctor about it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried around this burden of self-hate about my weight. Even in high school, when I was within a perfectly healthy weight range, I believed I was overweight and unworthy. It’s mind-blowing to think how skewed my perception was. Now, understanding more about the Body Mass Index (BMI) and what’s truly healthy, I can see how wrong I was back then.

It wasn’t until I hit 30 and started working a desk job that I began to gain weight, and it wasn’t until after my pregnancy that I officially became classified as “obese” by the BMI standards. So basically, I spent the better part of three decades hating my body—for no reason. And it sickens me to think of how much time I wasted feeling ashamed. Even worse, I never had the confidence to talk to anyone about it. My friends never knew because I was too embarrassed, and my family never took my concerns seriously, so why even bring it up?

One memory stands out. As a kid, we visited a “ghost town” near my hometown in Arizona—a touristy spot where you could have dinner, buy fool’s gold and learn about “the lost dutchman.” I remember a cowboy doing a demonstration with a long, Indiana-Jones-style whip, and he pulled my mom out of the crowd for one of his tricks. He called her a “beautiful lady,” and I was beaming with pride. I thought my mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. But then, I saw her reaction. She was embarrassed, trying to shrink away from the attention, denying that she was beautiful. I was confused and hurt for her.

Now, as an adult, I understand—she wasn’t just being modest or shy. My mom, as sweet and loving as she is, has always been her own worst critic. She never sees how wonderful or talented she is, and every compliment seems to bounce right off her. And now, I see those same insecurities in myself.

As much as I love my mom and am proud to be like her in so many ways, I know this is a cycle that could easily be passed down to my daughter. And that terrifies me. I don’t want her to grow up looking in the mirror and hating what she sees. I don’t want her to be haunted by the same self-doubt that plagued me. Fuck. That. This ends with me.

Starting tomorrow, I vow never to say another bad thing about myself in front of my daughter. I’m going to show her what confidence looks like—even if I have to fake it sometimes. I want her to grow up knowing she is so much more than just her appearance. She is strong, compassionate, and capable, and yes, she’s beautiful—but her beauty is made up of so much more than what she sees in the mirror. I will also make sure that we talk openly and regularly. She will always know she can come to me, no matter what.

Because this cycle of self-criticism stops here. With me.