by Stefanie Kramer

Created on: December 13, 2010   Last Updated: December 14, 2010

One summer I found my 13-year old daughter crying her eyes out because she hated the way she looked in her swimsuit. My heart fluttered between sadness and indignation and, quite honestly, bewilderment. I’d never seen Alex emanate a shred of self-consciousness about her figure before. A muscular-build (not fat, not stick-thin and still adorable in a tankini), something apparently made her feel like avoiding the public pool. And she was willing to give up a day of fun in the sun because she felt ashamed of her figure. 

So it began - the first of many “I’m-not-pretty-enough crying sessions.”  Are you kidding me? Now, understandably, mothers typically see their daughters (often reflections of themselves or their spouse) as beautiful. But mine really is! There is absolutely no reason for these silly crying sessions. But ‘ere goes...

As a little girl, I looked forward to watching every televised beauty pageant. God bless my mother, but I remember her emphasizing the importance of posture, dieting and exercise if “you ever wanted to look like any of those girls.” (Don’t get me wrong, she was even more encouraging of my academic studies so I could make something of myself. “Don’t marry money. Make your money!”) My mother was (and is) a very pretty lady. And as I think back, there wasn’t ever a time when I didn’t believe that being beautiful wasn’t important. 

Baby fat was a concern early on. And by the time I reached high school, I had given up school lunches. An apple, a granola bar and a Diet Coke became my meal plan. It kept my weight at a dainty 95 pounds. Once I zoomed off to college and quickly found the “freshman fifteen,” it was swiftly noted by my parents. Easily swayed by their opinion, I restarted my starvation techniques and took up jogging. In no time at all, I was dipping below 95 pounds. Fairly skeletal for a 5’5” frame. Eventually, I found my way back to a healthy weight and a much healthier psychological state. (Sometimes, it’s still a struggle - once in awhile that creepy little voice creeps back to ask me “how many calories have you eaten today?”) Anyhow, now I’ve reached a completely different crossroads. As I raise my girl, I wonder how I got myself into that predicament - and more importantly, how she can avoid the same unhealthy sickness.

Of course I don’t blame my parents. They were loving,

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