The Long Reach of Body Shame

At the age of 10, I knew I was fat – not that anyone in my family was actually rude enough to say so – no, insinuations and ridicule were enough. Food rules dominated my childhood years. As children, we were not allowed in the kitchen – although as the only girl, I was expected to dry the dishes after every meal. We were not even permitted to open the refrigerator without permission – even my father received a frown when he stepped towards the fridge – unless it was to fix pre-dinner drinks. School lunches consisted of a sandwich of white bread with one slice of ham or cheese – never two – and an orange. No snacking was permitted after school, except for the apple and glass of milk laid out on the dining room table. Even the meatballs in the vegetable soup were counted, to ensure no one snuck one before dinner – as though we would even dare! I recognize now that the kitchen and preparation of food were one of the only areas in her life where my mother had any control. And I also came to understand that my parents grew up during the war and rationing was ingrained in them. But I didn’t know that as a 10 year old girl.

We weren’t poor. Pizza was ordered a couple of times each month. My mother was an excellent cook and the quality of the food was good. But portions were controlled, especially my portions. Girls do not need second helpings. In my younger years, we weren’t allowed to leave the dinner table until everyone had finished eating – and my two brothers were bottomless pits. Often, when eating and conversation were finally winding down, I would be nibbling on the last cold, boiled potato in the pot – more out of boredom than hunger. It became a running joke in my family that potatoes were not safe around me.

I don’t remember actual criticism about my weight but there were so many subtle comments. My parents were very focused on raising a ‘lady’, and restraint and will power were considered important characteristics.  I was constantly told not to slouch, to stand straight, and to pull in my stomach. For too many years I have associated pulling in my stomach with being fat. I was tall for my age, and clumsy, and uncoordinated – and, not unexpectedly, also not a great athlete.  I was always one of the last to be picked for the team, a horrific gym class practice during my childhood. And one of my most humiliating moments was when I had to square dance with a rather goofy boy in grade 6 because he was one of the only tall boys in the class. I was not nice to him. I was in high school when I heard he had died of cancer - this ended up adding a layer of guilt to my growing list of adolescent inadequacies – as if my behaviour in grade 6 had contributed to his death.

And so it’s no surprise that, at 10 years old, I knew I was fat. The sad part is that I continued to think I was fat for the next 40 years. I was ashamed of my body throughout my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood, and I was ashamed that I did not have the willpower and restraint to take control. I went from being uncomfortable with my body, to hating my body, to ignoring my body. Over the years, body shame has impacted my relationships, my work, my confidence, and my enjoyment of day-to-day living. We know from Brene Brown that body shame is so powerful and often so deeply rooted in our psyche that it can impact why and how we feel shame in regards to identity, appearance, sexuality, motherhood, parenting, health, and aging. The long reach of body shame can impact who and how we love, work, parent, communicate, and build relationships.

Only a handful of photos exist of me from age 10 until I got married. Fat girls do not like having their photo taken. Then a few years ago I received a Facebook message from an elementary school classmate. Dougie had reached out with a photo of our grade 6 girls’ basketball team and wondered if I was the same Helen who had been in his class. Before I even looked at the photo memories of feeling big and clumsy and awkward came rushing back. I looked at the photo and there I stood in the back row, always in the back row, wedged in between Carol and some unremembered girl. I can name every single girl on the team, except for the girl beside me. There is Lorraine in the middle of the front row, the cute girl all the boys liked. Cathy, at the end of the front row, was the athletic one. And Fay is at the other end of the front row, I remember her older sister would sing at school concerts, she had a magnificent voice and I envied her.

I take a closer look at myself in the photo and realize, I actually didn’t look that bad. Yes, my hair was in those horrid pigtails I loathed but I‘m surprised to see that I’m actually not the tallest girl. Carol, standing beside me, is the same height as me, and Lynn, at the end of the row is taller than the two of us, as is the unremembered girl on the other side of me. It strikes me now, so many years later, that I actually look pretty. My arms are skinny, I have dimples, I’m smiling and I actually look pretty comfortable in my body. How sad to think that during all those formative years I suffered from the belief that I did not measure up, that my body let me down.

I finally began to feel comfortable with my body in my early 50s. It was a gradual process. My girls moved out, I had more free time and I discovered physical activities I enjoyed – yoga, cycling, and walking – especially walking. I headed off to Asia by myself for 2 months, cycling through the countryside of Chiang Mai and trekking through Bali. A few years later, I headed off to a yoga and hiking retreat in the Asturian Mountains of Spain. I walked the 288-kilometre Portuguese Coastal Camino. I hiked in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. These days my body feels strong. My body now feels like it fits.

Earlier this year, I was standing naked in the kitchen at our island cabin, making coffee, when my husband walked in. For a moment – just a brief moment - I felt the old shame return and I wanted to hide my body. But the look of love on my husband’s face was real and unconditional. And I realized that although the past may still haunt me at times, I too have come to love this aging, sagging body of mine.