never enough

my relationship with the mirror and my mother

TW: This piece does touch on body issues, fear of weight gain, and other similar topics. If you are not comfortable with these themes, I am sending love your way because I know it isn’t easy. I will not be offended if you choose not to read. Feel free to click away if at any point you do not feel comfortable.

<3 s.

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where it all began

I grew up “famous” for being underweight. Which was not attributed to anything I was doing directly, I was simply born premature.

Growing up with a mother that always complained about her weight and the way she couldn’t find clothes, eventually created a lot of disordered eating and body dysmorphia. I used her lack of self control as an example of who I swore to never become, and her body as a living image of my worst nightmare.

It became habit to anxiously watch the numbers blink on the scale before settling on a number.

I remember being made fun of in my playground years for being so skinny. Even the yard duty would laugh before saying I needed to hold on to something so I wouldn’t get swept away by the wind. I was called chicken legs, skeleton, and giraffe neck for my thin frame and long limbs.

Once I got to high school, I was teased for my flat chest and boyish frame. I dreaded dressing down for P.E. where the girls whispers echoed against the cold metal lockers. They confidently took off their tops to reveal $40 pastel colored lace bras from Victoria’s Secret. While I hid my 3 for $15 MaidenForm trainer under tank tops. I begged my mom for real bras hoping the shaping from the padding would make me look less like a boy. But she refused to buy push-up bras because she thought they were sl*tty. How could I explain to my immigrant mother that there literally wasn’t anything to push up? (Honestly, even today there really isn’t). I started doubling up my bras and stuffing them with ankle socks filled with rice. I remember how mortified I felt when my mom was helping me clean my room and found them.

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it’s britney b*tch

I grew up during the height of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. An era in which the stars were known for the iconic babydoll tops that showed off their slender waist and toned abs. I remember putting pink sticker gems on my belly in kindergarten swearing that I would get a piercing as soon as I was old enough (yeah, that never happened).

Even at the age of 12, I obsessed over the numbers. I measured my waist, thighs, and butt every day praying my waist would get smaller and my a** would get fatter. Thank you Apple Bottom Jeans and Genie in a Bottle for giving me aspirational ideals.

I remember going to bed every night begging God for a new body when I turned 18. I am so sorry God, how embarrassing. I tried again hoping he would listen when I turn 21, then 25. I am 27 going on 28 and still have a couple of the Gilly Hicks bras my mom bought in high school.

I remember crying my senior year of high school because I had entered 3 digits. My record of 90lbs now landing at 100-105. I realize now, that it was actually muscle tone from the sports I was in. To be honest, I would do anything to go back to that era. We always beg for a different body not realizing that one day, we are going to long for the body we once had.

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tostinos & laxies

With a lack of “assets”, I had come to believe that my sex appeal relied greatly on my waist and toned abs. The second I lose either, I lose my mind.

I vividly remember skipping lunch every day in high school because the idea of eating in front of other people gave me anxiety. I would then come home and eat an entire Tostino’s pizza while doing my homework. Lucky for me, eating an entire pizza didn’t do anything to my frame because I was constantly in various sports. On the off chance that I ate a big dinner or splurged on InnOut animal fries, I’d sneak into the medicine cabinet at night and chug Miralax because I could not stand the idea of getting myself to throw up.

Every night, I would lay down on the narrow space of empty carpet in my bedroom doing 100 sits ups in various different ways, 100 squats, and 100 fire hydrants all with the hopes that my waist would stay slim and I would grow a booty.

When I got to college, it only got worse. I would hide in the bathroom at social outings and do a quick set of standing crunches, side bends, and assisted pushups before I ate a meal.

No matter how skinny I was, it felt like it was never enough.

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pounds & pr’s

Once I mustered up enough courage to go to the gym, I became obsessed. I worked out every single day including 3am on Thanskgiving, just to give myself permission to eat mashed potatoes. For once, I love loved my body. Not only did my waist get even smaller but finally my cereal box of a frame filled out.

Instead of counting calories and pounds, I was counting pr’s and weights. I was finally learning how to love my body and realized that having muscle was not something to be afraid of. Instead, I was actively working towards the body of my dreams.

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just kidding: the era of covid

Then Covid came bringing my self love era to a screeching halt. Depression followed. I complained every single day that home workouts didn’t hit the same. To be honest, I lost discipline and my body resented me for it. I have never been a girl that runs, even in P.E. I would run the curves and walk the straights. But there I was, on my dad’s treadmill every day trying desperately to keep the weight off of my waist.

Once the quarantine ban lifted, my mom refused to let me return to the gym - lecturing me on the threat of mass contagion. So, I never went back. Honestly, half of the battle is walking in and I am too self conscious to go back even now.

I started home pilates and found myself slowly getting back to a more comfortable weight. While the workouts are fun, it’s easy to take a day off and fall out of habit. Or worse, to have other’s schedules and lack of boundaries impede on my routine. I didn't have the same freedom as I did when I went to the gym. A dedicated 2-3 hours, music in where no one could bother me or ask me to pause my session to help with a random chore. Nonetheless, I had made some progress and my relationship with my body wasn’t completely horrible.

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the dreaded season: summer

Summer. The time year where the clothes get smaller and my anxieties get larger.

I have always had a love hate relationship with the season of salty air and sunscreen. Loving the state of relaxation that comes with being poolside at an all inclusive resort and hating the sense of anxiety that comes with being poolside at an all inclusive resort.

I’m always either not skinny enough or far too thin.

Last summer, I wore a bikini for the first time since my pre-teen years and almost felt confident. I would walk down to the pool in the mornings after a workout, proud of my abs and it wasn’t until the end of the day that I would hide my stomach with a beach towel. I was still admittedly jealous of the girls laying next to me bathing in suntan oil, their toned abs glistening in the sun even after they ate a plate of tacos. How is that even possible? How do they do that?

But even then, reminded myself that I was only 8lbs away than my perfect body. Promising myself that next year I would finally work up the courage to go back to the gym.

Then it finally came. I hate to report that I am now 19lbs heavier. Gaining 12lbs in just the last 3 months. (If you think I am whining or are about to compare yourself to me, please exit.)

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the girls that get it, get it

I stepped on the scale, fully aware that the fat was now visceral even to someone free from the judgement that I place upon myself. Tears immediately fell when I realized that I was in fact, the heaviest I have ever been in my life and far heavier than I had anticipated. I need you to know dear reader, that I did not choose to let myself go… I broke my knee and have been literally bed ridden for the past 4 months.

I admit that I have complained about my weight fluctuating for as long as I can remember. But this time, it is unbearable. I am aware that my perception of self is not always healthy. The girls that get it, get it. And the girls that don’t, don’t. But I hope you never do, because it isn’t a fun place to be.

I also know that there once was a time I felt powerful and confident in my own skin. The absence of that feeling is what I mourn the most because it pains me to see the long road that lies ahead.

What makes it worse, is having those feelings invalidated by those I love.

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my relationship with my mother and the mirror

My mom has been overweight for as long I’ve known her. Often blaming her pregnancy with me, for her weight gain and inability to lose it. She brags that at one point she weighed even less than me and rolls her eyes anytime I show any sort of discomfort in my own skin.

She comments about how she would dress so differently if she was lucky enough to have my body. But she doesn’t realize that being built like a cereal box means clothes don’t do any sort of justice to your frame and no, you can’t just wear anything. Certain clothes will swallow your curves making you look like a ruler. Others will cling to the wrong places making you look disproportionate.

But now, now I actually am overweight. My doctor quietly ‘tsking at my body fat percentage as he suggests I take up cardio.

Yet, my mom still rolls her eyes when I say that I’m anxious about shopping for a new pair of jeans.

My mother often looks at me with disdain as if I have robbed her of her beauty. She compares her body to mine as if I am a haunting reminder of who she once was.

I have watched her go through countless yoyo diets - choking on dry chicken and drinking bitter hunger curbing shots - only to catch her finishing an entire bag of fun size Snickers and bbq Lays in one sitting. I have watched her trade breakfast for coffee and pastries (lunch is often skipped) and dinner for Diet Coke and frozen mac&cheese.

I’ve had her yell at me because I have chosen to workout instead of plan my day in accordance with her errands. I have had her call my phone repeatedly when I am at the gym because according to her, it shouldn’t take any longer than an hour. I have listened to her complain to her friends because she can’t make time to workout yet, she spends her free time sleeping in and scrolling on TikTok.

If there is one thing I won’t do, it’s feel sorry for someone that comes up with excuses and is bitter towards those that actually take the initiative to work on their health.

My relationship with my body and my mother is filled with endless love but at times it is so complex. We are at war with ourselves, the blood pooling at the other’s feet. It’s as if we view each other as circus mirrors - so similar and yet, distorted opposites. I hate that she doesn't take care of herself and she hates that I run myself to the ground; never satisfied.

I want to make it clear that I am not painting my mom out to be some villain.

While I know that some of these habits formed out of fear that I may end up like her, I know that if I was in her position I would probably feel the same.

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to the little girl I once knew

I think the problem lies within the act of actually voicing those thoughts and feelings towards your child and even more so, in not taking any proactive measures towards change and better health.

I resent my mom because I love her so dearly. All my life I have watched her shape her entire existence around placing the needs of everyone else before her own. I hate that everyone else has taken a toll on her health. I hate that they have robbed me of years I won’t get to enjoy with her by my side. I hate that she has allowed them to do so.

I have had to take breaks when writing this - choking on tears - because I hate looking at a reflection that I do not recognize and am afraid of what my mom’s health has become. It hurts more, when there isn’t anything I can really do about it. I do not have the power to go back in time and tell her it is okay to leave me at daycare while she runs to gym. I do not have the power to go back in time and stop myself from breaking a bone. At the end of the day: it is, what it is. I can only work towards finding peace within my own body and continuing to help my mom find hers.

I taped a photograph of me posing somewhere in Hawaii circa 8 years old. I can’t help but smile when I see how happy she is, free from the weight of beauty standards and the expectations I have burdened myself with. I watch her smile fade each time I throw stones at my reflection. She is just a little girl. How dare I rob her of the innocence of youth.

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a note to my reader

If you made it this far, it means that this diary entry has actually made it out of the drafts. I want to thank you so much for taking the time to read such a vulnerable piece. While I know not everyone will understand, I write to empathize and give voice to those that do.

If you or anyone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, body dysmorphia, or any other mental health related issues please use this database to find resources and support hotlines wherever you are in the world.

<3 s.

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