Body Talk

The one about diet culture and body image.

Jul 08, 2022

For a long time, I was at war with my body.

If you asked me straight out, I would have denied it, and maybe I didn’t even realize it at the time. I was in a constant battle to change my body, for years, and I can still remember my mom telling me I must have seen a different person in the mirror than who I was in real life. I wanted to be someone with a flatter stomach or who was more “toned” (whatever the hell that means) or who looked like the bodies I saw in all the magazines I read. I was grateful for the ways my body was resilient and kept me alive despite a chronic illness, but did I want it to look different? You bet.

From the time I was in high school, I was endlessly embarrassed by how much I needed to eat in a day, ashamed that I was almost always hungrier than the people I was at lunch with or hanging out with on vacations. I have vivid memories of family members criticizing how I ate, or telling me to watch my weight. Despite being petite, I have routinely been the person who ate the most on a date, who always needed seconds (or thirds), and who was miserable at events that didn’t factor meals into the planning. I would laugh off comments about how much I could eat, which came from both loved ones and strangers, but they stuck with me. Some things — some comments — you can’t shake off. Some are forever tucked away in the back of your mind, imprinted on your heart.

I can remember so many moments bristling at the remarks or the jokes and trying to shrug them off, and eventually, it wears on you. I started to feel like there was something wrong with me, like maybe I was weird for being hungry, or needing extra snacks, or being unable to last on a diet for more than half a day. And I say all that having always had the privilege of being in a smaller body; I can only imagine the scars that would have been left if I hadn’t.

Eventually, the residue of years of commentary on my hunger and weight, combined with the barrage of messaging at that time — late ‘90s/early 2000s were a trip — about diets and thinness led me to want to figure out how to finally control my hunger. Control my body. Find ways to not be the person who had to feel bad for needing more food. I never had a diagnosed eating disorder — I didn’t starve myself or throw up my meals — but by the time I finished college, I was deep in the trenches of disordered eating and just an overall unhealthy relationship with food. And the irony was that I thought what I doing was GOOD. Like hey, gold stars for being able to successfully adhere to the restrictive standards of diet culture! Shout-out to healthy living blogs and running chat rooms of yore for making me think it was a smart idea to obsess over everything I put in my mouth, all in the name of good health.

Back then (and honestly, still today), I could tell you exactly how many calories were in just about anything in our kitchen. (Eggs being 70 calories lives rent free in my brain to this day.) I’d obsessively check restaurant menus before going out to dinner. I jumped on the bandwagon of the Special K cereal diet and stayed on it far too long, and felt like any snack that wasn’t fruit was a failure. I mean, my fav magazines told me to stick to 1,200 calories a day and hell, I sure tried. I <much> later realized that I probably (definitely) had orthorexia, aka an obsession with “healthy” eating, and probably an addiction to working out as well (namely, exercising as a penalty for enjoying food). I would feel extreme guilt if I missed a day of workouts — like I wasn’t worthy of eating the meals I wanted to or honoring my hunger purely because I hadn’t gone for a run, or hadn’t worked out for as long as I thought I needed to; I was basically trying to make up for being a naturally hungry person by “working off” the calories I was eating per day that seemed like “extra.” Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely loved running, loved sweating, loved fitness… but loving something doesn’t mean it’s good for you. Doesn’t mean you’re not abusing it, or letting it take over your life in an unhealthy or excessive way. When I was finally (finally!) able to step out of that diet culture cage I’d unwittingly locked myself in, it was like seeing the sun for the first time.

A few weeks ago, I went to a baseball game. Before we left for the game, I had a flash of anxiety that reminded me of the old days (i.e, seven or so years ago), when I was still so steeped into diet culture; I started to panic about getting hungry and began considering — maybe I should bring a granola bar with me? An apple? And then, like the swish of windshield wipers to clear a cloudy window, I remembered that actually, I could just have a hot dog if I wanted, and maybe a pretzel too if I was still hungry, or whatever else I wanted. That I could order anything to eat and enjoy the game, and it didn’t make me a monster if drinking Diet Coke wasn’t enough to fill me up or stop my stomach from growling. What a damn relief.

The consistent stress and upheaval of our usual routines and hobbies over the last few years can make it easier to slip into old habits, and slide back into ways of thinking that no longer serve us. My body doesn’t look the same as it did a year ago, never mind 10 years ago, and I guess that shouldn’t be surprising — things shift and morph, you get stronger in some areas, weaker in others — but sometimes, it is. I find myself reminded lately of the constant tension I used to have with my body, with noticing I’d gained a couple pounds or that my shorts were not fitting quite like they used to. While yes, I no longer have an unhealthy relationship with food or fitness, I still find myself struggling with body image sometimes. Still have moments where I have to remind myself that we don’t do diets anymore. That yes, I can eat whatever I want, and if I’m hungry it’s OK. It doesn’t make me a bad person.

It just makes me… human.

So Many Somethings

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