“I can see you’ve been enjoying the food” — and other unsolicited comments on women’s bodies.

My mother grew up in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970 s. A sickly child, she was always classified as “underweight” and was encouraged to gain some “much needed kilos”. As hard as my mother tried, she could not gain this weight. During and post-adolescence, however, her slender frame was the source of much praise and admiration. She attracted the attention of many people due to her lithe frame, which was the “ideal body type” in the 19 70s. Then she became pregnant with me.

I remember always thinking that my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had olive skin, dark hair and a wonderfully voluptuous body. She was warm, friendly and outgoing. Everybody loved her and she immediately attracted attention, no matter where she went. She could have been in a room full of celebrities, and you would still notice my mother. The other vivid memories of growing up with my mother were, however, constant fad diets. Failed exercise regimens. Negative self-talk, asking herself over and over “how did I do this to myself?”. I remember being confused — ”how did you do what to yourself?” I would naively ask. She would reply “I am too fat”, and walk away, but not before reminding me “always look after yourself. Never get to how fat I am now”. It was at this moment that I learnt that to be “fat” was a bad thing — it made my mother sad and angry, how could it be anything but wrong? I then made it my mission — at the age of the 5 — to never, ever become fat.

It was just after this that my grandmother from Macedonia came to live with us for just over a year. My parents both worked two full-time jobs, day and night, so my Baba Nata would take care of my brother, cousin and I. Baba Nata was an amazing cook, and I remember her making the most amazing ethnic dishes consisting of meat, vegetables, pasta and gravy-like broths. It was heaven. Or, at least, I thought it was — after a few months, I began to get the taunts at school of being “short and chubby”. Kids would say “but it’s okay, because you have a pretty face”. I was confused — was I fat? I didn’t feel like I was a bad person. But I must have been, because I was “chubby”. I learnt later that my mother had a talk to my grandmother regarding my weight — my mother telling her she needed to watch what she was feeding me, and my grandmother telling her in no uncertain terms that she was to “leave Mia alone”, that the constant negativity surrounding my body would lead to repercussions later. She was right. I can’t say that, at this point, I was too concerned. I was still only around 7 at this stage, so was more concerned about friendships, whether Steph, Francesca and Hayley could sleep over and begging my parents for a puppy.

The real body image test came in high school, where I developed at a rapid rate. I grew shapely and voluptuous, gaining C-cup breasts by the age of 14. My hips and thighs arrived, which lead to stretch marks in unusual places. I remember getting dressed for school, wanting desperately to fit in with the others in a shorter dress than was deemed appropriate by school administration, but also embarrassed by the purple squiggly lines that had made their way on the backs of my legs. Instead of telling me that this was a normal growing process, when I asked my mother about them she responded with “well, I’ve told you that you should be watching what you eat”.

Watch what you eat. This would become a phrase I was intimately familiar with — as I am sure the majority of western women are. It’s a polite way of saying “you appearance, particularly your body, has become unsightly for my eyes, which have been conditioned to only accept the patriarchal/social construction of beauty. Please, for the love of sweet baby cheeses, do something about it NOW”. My own mother told me I needed to “watch what I eat”. So, at the age of 15, I began to watch what I ate. It started relatively simply — I would eat foods that I had considered to be “healthy”. Reduced saturated fats and excess sugars in my diet, no problem. I began to see some “progress” (the term for weight loss that is more socially acceptable). But it wasn’t happening fast enough — after more snide comments from my mother, I became frustrated at my lack of “progress”. My boyfriend at the time told me I was being irrational — that I was beautiful the way I was, I was desirable, and that I looked “healthy” (I’ll discuss more the trite concept that is “looking healthy” later). But none of this mattered — the person from whom I learnt about acceptable body standards and from where I sought love and embrace had essentially told me that I wasn’t doing enough to “keep myself nice”. So in search of solutions I went, straight to the electric internets.

There, I found a plethora of diets that promised to minimise my waist line, and more importantly my chunky thighs. One diet in particular stuck out to me — the Atkins. However, Atkins had too much saturated fat for my liking, so I developed my own version. At the same time, my high-school best friend also embarked on a mission of weight loss, and I believe that we unwittingly “fed” off each other (pardon the pun). Breakfast was carefully-measured 30g of muesli, with a splash of non-fat soy milk. Lunch was a small tub of fat-free yogurt or a small tin of fat-free tuna, and dinner was one small piece of grilled chicken, marinated in some herbs and balsamic vinegar. I quickly learnt to ignore the signs of hunger — this is plenty for people to live on, I would tell myself. Quickly, the “progress” happened, and the litany of compliments followed. “Mia, you look amazing! What’s your secret?” they would ask. I would blush, and tell them it was just luck, I guess. The pro tip for extreme dieters back then was to never tell anyone you were on a diet.

But soon, the “concern” started to flood in. My friends would comment on my hollow cheeks. My orchestra conductor said I had no colour in my face, and that I looked gaunt. My father, a stoic man of few words, asked if I was eating enough. Despite these comments being from a genuine place of concern, I took them as more attacks on my body. And, as they were mostly (in my mind) “positive”, I would keep going down this trajectory of “dieting”. Reflecting on this period of my life, it occurs to me that every single person had a comment, opinion or thought they would express on my body. And this was okay, in everyone’s mind, because it was coming out of a place of “love”. They wanted me to “get better”, whether I was overweight or underweight. “We’re just looking out for you, Mia”. Let us ignore the infantalising and patronising nature of these comments for just a moment — everyone had the right to have an opinion about my body. Except, of course, me.

Fast-forward to 18. I had moved out of home to a new city for university. For the first time, I did not have my mother looking over my shoulder constantly. So, I did what any teenager would do — I drank, behaved irresponsibly and didn’t look after my body. It was liberating, and I regret nothing about it. Feeling free and independent, I began to loosen my strict eating habits. Naturally, as a result, I gained weight. I, personally, thought nothing of this — however, everybody else did, and made it their business to tell me just how much my weight was impacting them. My mother told me she “couldn’t believe” I was a size 12. A fellow student at the conservatorium (Casey, I’m calling you out) exclaimed to anyone who cared to listen that “Mia is expanding at a rapid rate”. My body was, again, unacceptable. And it was up to me to do something about it. Guess what I did?

In addition to my modified-Atkins approach, I took to throwing up after certain meals. This way, I could be socially appropriate at dinners with my boyfriend and his family, and still have “progress”. The progress was swift and visible — friends told me how “proud” they were of me, family told me I looked “beautiful”. My boyfriend remained unfazed this entire time, telling me that I was beautiful no matter what, and that he would support and love me no matter what I decided to do. He just wanted me to be happy. Not once did he ever, EVER comment on my body.

So, here I was. Svelte, and telling myself I was happy as I’d achieved my goal — nobody was talking about my weight anymore. It was in the next few months, however that I would be diagnosed with a mental health condition, which required medication and therapy. A combination which, people will tell you, can lead to weight changes. Not just because of the physical side-effects of the medication, but also your emotional state — you are trying everything in your power to overcome the demons in your psyche, that you will eat, you will sleep, you will avoid exercise (despite the research telling us that this is actually better for mental health recovery). I won’t bore you with the details of my diagnosis, manifestation of said condition and the road to recovery. What I will tell you, however, is that I gained weight. Plus, I gained the comments.

The insults were very indirect and passive-aggressive, primarily coming from my mother. “You need to watch what you eat”, “Have you tried yoga and Pilates? They’re good for toning” and “Maybe you should lay off the pasta” were things that I was now conditioned to hearing, and I would unwittingly absorb them. This is my mother. She obviously wants what’s best for me. It didn’t matter that I had taken control of my mental health condition — this was but a path toward fatness.

The next few years were plagued with various diets and exercise regimes, none as strict as my previous attempts as, due to my regular medication, I didn’t give enough of a shit. I was with somebody who adored me the way I was, I was increasing ever so slightly in confidence, I was physically healthy. What was the need? But rather than argue the comments, I would simply absorb them, and then tell myself “I may be chubby, but I’m happy….” (But deep down, wished I was 8 kg lighter).

We fast-forward to my move to the USA. Competing in roller derby had lead to some inevitable injuries, most recently the torn ACL in my left knee. Recovery from the injury and surgery were brutal, however I was determined to return to a fitness regime so I could get back on skates ASAP. It was during this fitness adventure that I discovered power lifting, and my trainer.

Signing up at the local gym, I asked for a trainer with experience in injury recovery and power lifting. I was introduced to Robert, who himself was a power-lifter and bodybuilder. Meeting with Robert, I was struck by one thing in particular — he did not ask me if I wanted to lose weight/”tone up”. Robert simply asked what my goals were, and when I informed him that one was “lifting heavy”, he seemed genuinely thrilled. Later, I would ask him why he didn’t ask me the weight question (despite every other personal trainer I met with asking me this first and foremost). Robert would tell me “this is your body, these are your goals, I’m here to help you facilitate your goals”. I was immediately taken aback, and distrusting — surely, you need to be svelte to be effective in power lifting? You need lean muscle definition to get those gains? Robert laughed, and we got started. My weight has never been mentioned in the five months I have been training with him.

There is something incredibly empowering about looking at a 245lb/120kg barbell and knowing you can lift it off the ground. I talk with Robert about what helps my body be able to do this. He tells me “your glutes, quads and hamstrings are incredibly powerful, Mia”. He doesn’t use the words “big”, or “fat”, or “meaty”. He uses “powerful”. This is the first time anybody has every used these terms to describe any part of my body. Soon, I am encouraged to start using them as personal descriptors. And, let me tell you, it is certainly more confidence-boosting using these adjectives for yourself than having other people tell you exactly how defunct you are as a human.