THE NARRATIVE ARC
I Survived Growing Up in a Fatphobic Household
In my mother’s house, we were always on a diet
I grew up in a middle-class family on a pretty tree-lined street. I had what I needed to survive: a roof over my head, clothing, and three meals a day. By all accounts, I was privileged. But I lacked sympathy, encouragement, and unconditional love.
Ours was a fatphobic household — one created by my mother’s fear of getting and staying fat. Her fatphobia, often directed at me, was reinforced by my brother and unconsciously supported by my father.
Convinced I’d grow up fat even though I wasn’t a fat baby or a chubby kid — somehow, my family just knew.
Families often come together at the dinner table and share the highs and lows of their day. For me, my parents and my brother analyzed, criticized, and commented on my behavior, especially when it was related to food.
“Stop eating butter,” my father said as he added some to his bread.
“Chew each bite 100 times,” my mother said.
“You’re not allowed to eat mashed potatoes,” my brother couldn’t resist adding in.
Criticism can be helpful, but it made me feel bullied when everybody thought they needed to give me some…
